I'm not going to lie. You could melt cheese over a dead baby and I'd probably eat it. So it goes without saying that filling a buttery pastry with diced tomatoes, some green shit, and the melty, gooey goodness of the Gods is so far up my alley, the picture alone is making me walk with a limp. Alley, of course, meaning butthole. But it's not just the cheese. Look at the shimmer of the tomato. The supple, yet flaky, dough sheath. And the cheese. Oh, the cheese. Look at that motherfucking cheese. Dionysus herself could not have crafted an object more worthy a thorough, salacious boot knocking.