My boyfriend and I just drove back from Rocco's and before we evened opened our silver square (New York would never do square) to-go containers, we pact to never return to this salty slick excuse for a pizza joint. I am a NY transplant and have been on the hunt for a decent slice of greasy New York style pizza since I stepped off at LAX. I read reviews for Rocco's promising mediocrity at best, all I have been asking for, and we headed off to Miracle Mile to feed my craving. I loved the location, set amidst some taller (for L.A.) buildings and what looks like could be some mid-scale boutiques & restaurants. Red/white checkered & umbrella'd tables added the perfect amount of warmth to the cold crispness of this commercial district - like home. The smell of the pie crusting brought me back to Two Boots in the Village after a night at the Fat Black P*ssy Cat. But make no mistake. This is L. A. And you are reminded as such the moment you swing open the front door and are greeted, aggressively, by a tall blonde mess with a smile too fake even for this city, standing guard between the customer and the counter at all times. expanding the distance, LA style, between the consumer & the producer. Admittedly I kept trying to dodge her, I wanted to lean my stomach up against the counter and order my pie, I wanted to lock eyes with the cashier and hear him yell back to the flour covered pizza boy to start preparing my pie before wiping sweat from his forehead. But I was blocked by six feet of blonde frigidity shoving laminated menus in our faces. We ordered: Eggplant Parm., Chicken Fett. Alfredo, and a few varieties of pizza slices: BBQ, Suprm., Cheese. An 8 min. wait turned into 23. Not worth the extra 15 min. The eggplant was like cardboard, the alfredo sauce CLEARLY made from powder poured over cold purdue chicken strips, and the sauce was so salty it was barely edible. Thank God LA hasn't done away with the taco trucks, or we'd have starved tonight.