Last month, I sensed that my praise of a favorite pizza place was veering off into hyperbole.
"Their pizzas are outstanding," I told multiple people. "The toppings are excellent, and so is the thick crust. You can eat every last bit of every slice. Their salads are great, too. The croutons are the best I've ever had, the lettuce and cheese are always fresh, and the dressing complements the salad well. They're considerate enough to include a slice of lemon with your soda, as well."
I continued, "The interior of the place is sleek and inviting, too; it's not what you'd expect, looking at it from outside. The people who work there are always polite, as well, and there's never much of a wait."
Not content to stop there, and realizing how I was starting to sound, I started parodying myself.
"The trees outside the building rival the tallest, most beautiful trees you've ever seen at any park," I said. "There's a view through those trees that I'd swear is a window to Heaven. The birds in those trees sing the most elaborate, moving songs you've ever heard. Also, the asphalt in the sidewalk by the building is as smooth as can be; the pavement is so level, I can't imagine anyone ever tripping and falling..."
The best pizza, it turns out, can make a reviewer giddy to the point of lunacy.
