Had we not been in the room to witness the event, we never would have believed our neighbor’s pizza delivery nightmare story. But we watched the whole thing play out from start to finish, and it’s a shocker.

Three of us had spent most of Saturday evening sorting through dozens of boxes of inherited old books that Mr. Penguin had stacked around his apartment, and by the time we realized we were all hungry, it was after 10:00. None of us wanted to go out, exhausted as we were, so Mr. Penguin fired up the laptop and logged on to SeamlessWeb to find us a pizza. At that hour, our only real option was a restaurant we’d never tried before, but we were all game–and ready to eat. So with a click, we placed our order, added in our tip, and locked our fates forever with Fat Sal’s.

40 minutes later, Mr. Penguin received a call from the delivery man, saying he was outside. He buzzed the delivery person into the building and went to the door to collect the pizza while HungryMan and I stood in the living room, clearing space for dinner. But our friend didn’t leave the door after he closed it. We heard him slide the peephole cover open and remain there at the door, watching the delivery man leave. We asked, “What’s going on? Is everything OK?” and then scrambled to the hallway when we heard him reply, “Oh my God.”

The door flew open again, and there stood the Fat Sal’s delivery man, in the hallway, pants pulled down around his hips, penis poking through the flap of his underpants, getting ready to let loose a stream of urine into the corner in front of Mr. Penguin’s apartment. He looked stunned to have been discovered, wincing visibly when Mr. Penguin began bellowing at him to get out of the building. Even more astounding was the fact that the brazen delivery man took his sweet time bundling himself back up and collecting his things–only when two more building residents walked in the front door did he speed up and leave. We all stood there, door open wide, aghast at what had just happened.

According to Mr. Penguin, he had gotten some ugly looks from the delivery person as he signed the receipt and thought that he probably ought to make sure the man left the building. “I thought–at the very worst– that the guy might throw some garbage in the hall. But I didn’t expect that.” But through the peephole, Mr. Penguin watched as the Fat Sal’s employee looked around to make sure nobody was watching, set his insulated pizza bag and coat down in the hallway, and then ambled into the corner and unzipped.

Within seconds, Mr. Penguin was on the phone to Fat Sal’s, and HungryMan and I were taking notes–it was a Woodward & Bernstein moment. And unbelievably, this is where the story gets even worse, as the man on the telephone refused to tell Mr. Penguin whether the manager was in the store, and then a full 5 minutes into the conversation announced, “Sorry. I don’t speak English,” and hung up on him. When Mr. Penguin called back and explained the problem again in Spanish, he was told simply, “Call back tomorrow and talk to the manager. I’m not going to help you.”

Galled but powerless to press the issue that night, we sat down and stared suspiciously at the pizza box. Should we eat it? Was it safe? Mr. Penguin assured us that it was in the insulated bag when it arrived, so we figured that it was probably left untampered. We also wondered aloud what we would do if, by some miracle, this was the best pizza we’d eaten in New York–what sacrifices are worth making for a good slice? Turning your hallway into a Port-a-Potty? Escorting your delivery person out the door each time he brings you a pie? As it happened, these were irrelevant questions, as the pizza was adequate, but not great–the salty crust was much better than the too-greasy, too-sweet toppings.

The next day, we all reconvened at Mr. Penguin’s apartment, where HungryMan and I sat listening in on speakerphone to the follow-up call to Fat Sal’s. It should come as no suprise that the same stonewalling employee answered the phone and insisted that not only was the manager not in, but he couldn’t release his name because, “I don’t know who you are.” Even after Mr. Penguin gave him his name and phone number, he was told that the manager’s identity would be kept secret, but that perhaps Mr. Penguin would receive a call in the near future. Perhaps.

At this point, we did the only thing we could, and called SeamlessWeb, having seen how diligent they are about following up with satisfaction surveys after some orders. Mr. Penguin lucked out and spoke not only with a live person, but with a very senior, very helpful, and very outraged staffer who reported that this was the worst delivery story she had heard in 6 years. She immediately refunded the entire bill to Mr. Penguin and promised to contact both the manager and owner directly. “Fat Sal’s is going to be getting hit from Seamless Web on all sides,” she said. And we believe her, even though Mr. Penguin hasn’t heard back from the restaurant yet.

This cautionary tale of pizza and forced watersports has certainly made us rethink responsibility and culpability. From our perspective, Fat Sal’s restaurant can be excused for hiring a bum delivery person, but not for its hostile attitude and complete lack of a response to a serious, potentially criminal complaint. We won’t presume to tell you what to do, but I do know there are at least three pizza lovers in Manhattan who will never do business with Fat Sal’s again.