In this technologically orgasmic era of ours, the final act of letting go is often the deletion of the relevant contact from one’s cell phone. Today, I deleted Pinocchio’s On-The-Go, “Pinnos,” as I had abbreviated it, from my phone ... forever. Now if you’ll allow, I’d like to pay tribute to the toppled titan.

Pinocchio’s met its end by the cruel, invisible hand of the free market. Their parent bar purchased by Stacker’s, these noble men of the calzone were thrust out onto the street. I ask you, did we really need another pub? There will never be another Pinocchio’s — unless you count the ones in Three Rivers, Ludlow and Springfield — but that’s not the point! Pinocchio’s of Amherst will always hold a special place in the Food Dude’s heart because they were the only ones in the world bold enough to make a chicken alfredo calzone.

Shrugging off convention, these tireless visionaries sought culinary perfection and nearly achieved it with their chicken alfredo calzone. With only a hint of mozzarella to confirm its “zone-hood,” these magical dough pockets were wonders to behold. Yet ... they were not perfect. Broccoli, the dish’s standard second fiddle, was a tolerable accompaniment to the savory chicken and rich creamy sauce, but the zone could never reach its zenith if burdened by the brocc.

For a while, I would simply order this calzone without broccoli. This was a delicious compromise indeed, but the dish lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Then one day, inspired by Bertucci’s Gratinati, I decided to ask for tortellini instead of broccoli. The order-taker was a bit taken aback but eventually obliged, and what resulted was pure indulgent perfection. Out of Pinocchio’s womb sprang a creature of unparalleled succulence. I can only hope that one day I will be as proud of my real children as I was of my doughy, delicious brainchild.

Sadly, with the closing of Pinnochio’s, my creation will be forever lost to the annals of history. I just ... I just wish I could have said goodbye one last time. A recent health-kick had fostered a long hiatus between my heart-clogging progeny and I, and now I will never get another chance to indulge in its wonders. So goodbye old friend, I’ll pour a 40 of marinara on the curb for you.