When the gluten-free pizza hit the table, I felt like I’d been sucker-punched by good intentions gone wrong. The crust wasn’t just bad—it was a culinary crime scene. Dull brown, spongy, and so undercooked it could’ve doubled as a prop in a zombie flick, it sat there under a blanket of melted cheese and toppings like a secret the kitchen was desperate to hide. If it weren’t for that cheese, stringy and forgiving, you’d swear this thing never saw the inside of an oven. I wanted to love it, I really did. But this crust? It’s the kind of thing that makes you question why you left the house.