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First: Spago. 
Spago’s Italian-Californian fusion menu enticed me out for a Saturday date lunch. As I entered with my husband on-the-arm, we were greeted with a smirk by a too-cool-for-school-hostess. She showed us to our table in the main dining room, which looked like a fancy version of California Pizza Kitchen. Imagine — if you will — that a CPK had been asked to the prom by the star quarterback. It probably would don its most expensive dress, some Spanx, maybe a tiara, and end up looking just like Spago’s dining room.
On to the food: I ordered the Soft Omelette with Black Trumpet Mushrooms and my husband had the Lobster Cobb Salad. We split the Marinated Japanese Hamachi and Tuna Sashimi appetizer. Gold stars for the sushi; slippery, squishy, succulent gold stars. No gold stars, however, for the main courses. My omelet was a paradigm of mediocrity; the trumpet mushrooms simply didn’t play my tune. As for the Lobster Cobb Salad … let’s just say that the poor lobster was plucked from the arms of his loving lobster family, sent on a death march to Spago, and boiled alive — all for nothin’.
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Not wanting to repeat the same mistake, I took a solo trip to a Sbarro in a nearby mall the very next day. The food court was loud, of course, but it was only slightly more clamorous than the contriv
ed bistro atmosphere of Spago.
The service at Sbarro was a dream! A friendly fellow behind the counter took my order: a slice of pepperoni pizza and a slice of spinach and broccoli stuffed pizza. Stuffed pizza? That’s some culinary ingenuity right there. I paid the equally friendly gal behind the cash register a tenth of what I’d spent at Spago. She even accommodated my request for a half-Pepsi-half-Dr. Pepper concoction without batting an eye.
I dined at a food court table enjoying half of each perfectly greasy, extremely fulfilling slice while observing local mallrats frolicking nearby. Charming dinner theater.
I took the leftovers home only to devour them less than an hour later. The rather pricey leftovers from Spago are still languishing in the fridge. Should I worry that moldy little Wolfgang-Puck-spawn (armed w ith trumpet mushrooms) will sprout forth from the doggie bag to seek their vengeance for this review? Probably.
So if you are in the market for a fulfilling, soul-cradling lunch, make tracks for Sbarro; Sbarro lives up to your every expectation and settles in your gut like a tender warm fuzzy. Spago, on the other hand, feels icy-cold, uninspired, and just kinda douchy.
Yep, The Fast Food rules. Sorry, Wolfy P., but Sbarro wins this round.
Did you like this edition of Fast Food Standard? Check out the next battle between Long John Silver’s and Chart House here.
Love it! I would choose Sbarro over Spago any day.