I went to the small pizzeria in a nearby village last month and asked for a calzone, and when she brought it to me the owner had a look on her face I can only describe as bitter.
Naturally my first assumption was that she was judging me for my food order (maybe calzones are too easy compared to other pizzas and she felt under-challenged as a pizza chef?), but then I looked at my calzone and the more I looked at it, the more I felt like it might have been a failed attempt at a cat calzone.
(I didn’t ask for a cat calzone, just a calzone.)
If I had immediately identified it as a cat calzone I would have of course said something about it, such as “Aww that’s so cute! You made it in the shape of a cat!! Thank you!” — but it was too late. I hesitated too long, and it was just failed enough that I wasn’t sure it was meant to be a cat.
I think this poor woman knew her cat calzone was a failure and I wouldn’t be able to recognise her effort for what it was, hence the bitterness in her eyes when she brought it to me.
I asked my friend if my pizza looked like a cat to her, and she said “Are you saying this because of the olives? I think they were just placed randomly.”
no, I think they were meant to be eyes, and a cat nose. And those are the ears. Wait, I’ll turn it in your direction so you can see
Friend: “It’s just a pointy calzone… Maybe you should ask the chef if she meant to make it a cat?”
If I tried to make a cat calzone and the recipient of this gift went like ‘hey, sorry, is this weird-looking thing meant to be cat?’ I would sell my pizza restaurant and drown myself in the river.
After considering this, my friend said we could brainstorm a better phrasing—but then we ended up agreeing that since the chef didn’t go 'haha sorry I tried to make a cat and failed!!’ when she brought my pizza, the options were a) she didn’t try to make a cat; b) she feels humiliated by her failure, and either way it’s better to say nothing.
But I felt deeply curious about this unresolved mystery, so this week when I went back to the pizzeria I asked for a calzone again.
The options were now: a) the chef brings me a better, recognisable cat calzone and I immediately remark upon it and she’s happy and we erase the failed cat calzone from the historical record and never mention it ever;
or b) the chef brings me a normal calzone, which suggests that the vague cat shape from last time was accidental and just another instance of chronic cat pareidolia.
(I refused to consider option c) The chef brings me another failed, hardly-recognisable cat. She just doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would let that happen to her twice.)
Here’s the photo of the failed cat calzone from last time, which, according to my friend, just looks like a pointy calzone with randomly-placed olives and not a deliberate attempt to make a cat:
And here’s what the chef brought me this time:
THAT’S A CAT.
I knew it!!!!
And it looks so sad!! This cat calzone looks like it will burst into olive oil tears if you once again fail to identify it as the cat that it is
But I didn’t; I was so ready this time. I went “A cat!!!!! It’s so cute!” and the chef went like yes!!! I tried to make one last time but it looked weird :(
I said I was pretty sure it was a cat last time and apologised for not bringing it up and she said no, it’s my responsibility to make it a decent cat. She also said she was glad I’d come back and ordered another calzone because she was really bothered (“vraiment embêtée”) by that first failed attempt, and wondering if I’d noticed an attempt was made (and failed)
That’s so relatable. It’s like when you make a really embarrassing spelling mistake in a text and you’re not sure if the other person has seen it and is judging you for it. Should you bring it up? Can it go unnoticed if you don’t? It’s the cat calzone equivalent of that. I’m so glad we were able to clear the air.
