Every time I eat at Spris, I grow a brand new pube.
This is my favorite pizza. That’s no exaggeration, my friends, it’s my favorite pizza in the world. I don’t know if the oil they use contains traces of heroin and Sofia Vergara’s placental fluid, but it’s the best damn grease legally available. Everyone has a place they love that sometimes disappoints them, even if it’s something slight like the chef going through a rough divorce so instead of preparing your food with love he does so with agony and marital infidelity. This is not the case with Spris, all of their chefs’ marriages are stable.
I dine at Spris semi-regularly, however not regularly enough so that I tire of the pizza. That’s pretty much all I eat there, by the way, the pizza. Everything else could be made of Ashley Simpson’s lack of talent for all I care. I believe I tried something else there once when I was vetting my best friend’s ex to make sure she wouldn’t break his heart (she fooled me!) and I still haven’t forgiven myself for sacrificing my love of their pizza for an attempt at variety. Never again, mouth, never again.
…Italian beer tastes like watching Jersey Shore.
A complaint is always necessary, and I happen to have one handy. They serve no Guinness. They serve some shitty domestic crap and Moretti. The Italians are not well-known for their beer brewing. There’s a reason why: Because Italian beer tastes like watching Jersey Shore.
What does watching Jersey Shore feel like?
I’m sure they have a good wine selection, but I wouldn’t know because anyone who eats pizza with wine is a savage. A SAVAGE. I don’t care how Italian the dish is. If you’ve never tried pizza and beer together you’re missing out on the second best combination in existence. The first best combination is something I’m keeping to myself.
Their wait staff is pretty typical of Italian eateries. They’re pleasant and don’t linger around while getting in your face asking the same “is everything going well” that translates into “this should increase my tip by at least 2%.” I prefer the Italian way. They give you some bread which is remarkably good. One time I asked my waiter if that bread was the Body of Christ and he laughed a little too hard at it. He must’ve been an atheist or a Scientologist.
What does the Body of Christ look like?
Note to the Scientologists: Please don’t sue me for that comment. Cruise is a fine actor and silent births aren’t at all weird. All praise Hubbard.
Anyway, moving on. Oh, wait, I just realized how relevant it was to include Scientology in this review since this Spris is on the same block as the Cult of Scientology office in Miracle Mile. This makes things convenient. Now you can have yourself a slice of pizza while you cleanse thetans. Win-motherfuckin-win.
Spris: The Pizza of the Gods. Try this place out if you haven’t. Tell them Xenu sent you. With all these Scientology comments I wouldn’t be surprised if fucking Travolta shows up at my door with his damn brochures.
People who would enjoy it
People who would not enjoy it
- 2305 Ponce De Leon Blvd
- Coral Gables, FL 33134
- (305) 444-3388