Proven, Stone

Jim said we’re going to eat pizza at somewhere called Proven in Stone. Admit it, it’s a great name for a pizza gaff. The dough is proven and is cooked in a stone oven. It’s literally genius, as in literal and genius, and it makes me want to open a wine bar called Crushed in Bottle, or a pasta bar called Kneaded in Pan, though the latter does sound like a call for help at a retirement village. And then we get in his car from Yoxall and drive forty minutes to a small town called Stone and suddenly it makes sense. Silly me. Anyway, what idiot calls a town Stone? Especially one that hundreds of years later could home a pizza restaurant called Proven? They were asking for trouble. Luckily it’s brilliant, but then it was always going to be. Jim knows his pizza almost as much as his dashingly handsome fourteen year old son Isaac, who has been with his dad to eat things proven in stone all over the country. Proven, in Stone, is his favourite of the lot, more than the ones in Birmingham and…