The new Crocodile Lounge on 14th Street (a spinoff of Williamsburg’s Alligator Lounge) serves a crappy personal pizza with every beer ordered.

No way.

Way.

Having been brought along by in-the-know pals, I sat there refusing to believe that I’d landed myself in such a perfect situation until I had proof of pizza. Maybe my friends had gotten lucky on a one-night-special. Or maybe, since it was after 2:30 am, the oven would have shut down. But no: minutes after ordering beers… we each got a pizza accompanied by a wicker basket of sprinklings.

The quality of the pizza was exceedingly low. It tasted like something you’d buy at the concession stand of a high school gym or suburban ice rink, when you’re depressed that life has led you to this lame event and so you try to make things better with a pizza even you know is going to be truly awful.

The “crust” was maybe a few milimeters thin, a measurement which decreased with every second because the grease on top of it eventually just seeped right the F on through. When I picked up a “slice,” the triangular end automatically drooped at a 90-degree angle towards the floor, as if to say “Look, I’m not really pizza.”

This is not something anyone should eat. And yet, because it was right in front of me and available, I found the entire situation miraculous.