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In college, I briefly worked at a pizza parlor where the place’s specialty was garlic knots.

Garlic knots were really just strings of dough tied in a knot that then had a garlic butter brush run over them. You’d sit in the back, grab a bucket of dough from the fridge and roll knots until you were divining signs from their shape.

The boss of the place was a swarthy Italian with the mouth of a sailor and the bravado of a drunk sailor. He was the centerpiece of this joint. You walk in, there is the classic pizza bar with stools sitting around the enclosure. In the center of this enclosure, instead of a bartender, is a giant irreverent man throwing discs of dough in the air and barking for more garlic knots.

We’re in small town Alabama where the heat follows you everywhere and the people get nervous when you move your hands too fast. As it follows, the crowd that the swarthy Italian attracted was a bucolic crew consisting of single mothers and parents looking to get out. The vibe was lively as our protagonist would shuffle from fridge to flat iron fryer, serving pizza, salad and garlic knots. Taking orders and waiting for instructions from the giant Italian man that was the sun to your Saturn.

That is what a pizza parlor reminds me of.

Monday nights at Pizza Perfect in Nashville on 21st Ave.

2-for-1 Beer and Slices.

Come and be merry.