“You realize that if you write about Casa Bianca” he said. “I’m going to have to kill you. Slowly After I break both of your legs. It’s hard enough to get in on a Saturday night as it is.
Casa Bianca is located on a lonely stretch of Colorado dominated by small apartment buildings and Rose Bowl motels, somewhere between Highland Park and Eagle Rock and usually a long block from parking space. It’s classic neon “Pizza Pie” sign a massive old thing, glows in a nursery pink and blue. From the outside, it sometimes looks all misty and gloomy, like something evocative and late 40’s out of an arty new-wave gangster film.
When you step into the foyer, you’re whomped with the smell of garlic and the roar of many, many people being happy. The walls of the waiting area are plastered with autographed celebrity photos-Ernest Borgnine, the metal band Junkyard, a young and cute Ed Asner-and a Perma-Plaqued 1973 interview with the owner from what looks like a produce-company journal. Sam Martorana has apparently been running the place since early in the first Eisenhower administration.
Tables are covered with red-checkered tablecloths, there are a zillion Morettii beer signs on the walls: red pepper flakes and grated cheese are right next to the salt and pepper shakers; the wine selection is limited to pink, white and red. If you listen hard, you can hear big-and music from the speaker’s overhead. This is the pizza parlor all Americans have been conditioned to look for since early childhood.