What amounts to a greasy pizza shop with a few tables crammed into it, Pomodoro was surprisingly satisfying for a place with no character whatsoever. Even sadder than the fact we spent time on a Saturday night in this joint was the fact we were seated with a nice couple from Israel who were on their honeymoon. Jeez, nothing like avoiding getting your ass blown up on a bus, only to be stuck at a table with a bunch of drunk-ass Americans shoving slices of brick-oven pizza into their holes. Through the haze, I seem to recall the restaurant being pretty hectic and bustling, but that may have just been the booze-soaked brain cells colliding in my head. I also recall talking enough that I didn’t get as much pizza as I would have liked, but what I did eat gets five stars in the drunken-pizza-chowing guide to downtown Manhattan. [MF]
51 Spring St.
212/966-9229