Flying Pie Pizzaria 

Holy Triple Pie, Batman! Let's talk about the spiciest food in Idaho. Wait ... first let me discuss my qualifications to espouse, vociferate and otherwise emphatically opine about spicy food: I spent several months in Thailand inadvertently acclimating my palette to food so spicy that I blistered my mouth nightly. Since then, I've not met a food so ornery as to upset either my tastebuds or my digestive system ... until a recent fateful meeting with a slice of Flying Pie's Triple Pie.

Ground beef, linguica, Italian sausage, romano, mozzarella, sharp cheddar, capsicum (green peppers as we 'mericans know them), crushed red peppers, jalapenos and a red sauce too hot for Heidi Fleiss. Yeah, it's finger lickin' good but be sure to have a beer on standby as the first one will disappear quicker than you can spell onomatopoeia.

The Saffa--who'd been making friends with the staff by adding a pin at Durban, South Africa, to the Pie's world map of customers who are from more than 100 miles away and think F.P. rocks--said it in a single, obvious and not-so-eloquent word: spicy. As I was sweating like a whore in church, my response was a bit more four-lettered, but was suffixed with the words "damn good." We were an articulate twosome that night.

Bit of Black Butte Porter to soothe the numbed tongue and it was off to a taste of the Pesto Primavera Pie. A walk on the mild side after a walk on the wild side is just not fair for the fair-tempered food, so it took a second slice to elicit a strong conclusion from either of us. In his own four-lettered response, the Saffa praised the tomaaaatoes (you say tomato, he says tomaaaato) of all things. Mind you he was eating artichoke hearts for only the second time in his life (the first was out of politeness at my mother's dinner table not long ago). Tomaaatoes, arti hearts, cheddar, mozzarella, provolone, garlic, pesto and mushrooms (sans fungi for us), the Pesto Primavera on wheat crust cuddled our weeping mouths and wiped away the Triple Pie tears.

Alas, wusses we are not and determined not to be daunted by the taunting of a food that sits lower than us on the food chain, we attacked the Triple Pie once more, this time dissecting and examining between our jalapeno bites, determining that crushed red peppers lying in wait in the red sauce were the most responsible source of heat. Sneaky wee litt'l buggars.

A side note: The bathroom walls are a fabulous visual read to replace the daily paper on frequent beer-induced visits.

Final words: Flying Pie is more than pizza, it's an attitude.

—Rachael Daigle knows that dynamite comes in small packages—just like all things nice.

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