Pizza
You know New Yorkers are a bit off their rocker about pizza when one of the first things to hit the dreaded blogosphere after their governor is implicated in a sex scandal is a bit on a foodie website saying, in essence, “We shoulda known he was no good because his favorite pizza joint is upstate”.
I guess I should’ve seen it coming. Pizza is as New York as, well, stepping off the curb while waiting for the light to change or being annoyed on the bus by three loud cell phone conversations in three different languages or buying a plain black umbrella during a rainstorm for twice the price that it was yesterday when the weather was sunny.
My earliest happy food memories are of pizza. There was a small place, long gone now that had the red and white checked tablecloths that we’d go to as a treat when I was a pre-kindergartener. There was the time we went to the Nathan’s that expanded into a pizzeria when I was around 10 and my father convinced me that I wanted a lot of hot crushed pepper on my slice. I don’t know if there’s scientific evidence indicating that the tongues of the young are more sensitive to capsaicin, but I can tell you it was true in my case.
In high school, I got a service-credit job delivering office supplies and the stockroom was right by a service exit that led out to the school parking lot adjacent to a the late, great Pizza Town, nee Pizza Clown but then still shaped like a big top. The security guards used to let us sneak over there for some fine pizza and birch beer or alternately an excellent sausage and pepper hero. I say sneak because back then you weren’t allowed to leave the building during class hours – once you were in, you were in. Fortunately the security guards liked us even if one of them did refer to me as “that pear-shaped kid”.
When I was in college, I frequented a hole-in-the-wall joint called Frank’s where depending on my mood I could get two huge plain slices or one stuffed “garbage” slice for $2.50. It was a great lunch and great drunk food and many Deep Thoughts came to me as I ruminated on one of Frank’s bar stools staring into the ancient mirror. I’m pretty sure I could go down there today and find it much as I last left it; one of the reassuring places that hasn’t changed much in decades mainly because it doesn’t need to.
Today pizza provokes angst, joy, and arguments. The angst of deciding if we want thin-crust pizza from our favorite local bar or “regular’ pizza and do we want toppings or not has enveloped many a Friday night’s pre-dinner discussion. The joy of eating great pizza with friends and loved ones. The arguments over where the best pizza is or the ones that result when I eat pizza with out of towners who insist on using a fork and knife which is sacrilege eclipsed only by putting ketchup on a hot dog. Pizza is, in short, everything great food should be: sensual, evocative, and great with beer. It’s food so good, even vegetarians can appreciate it in most of its forms.
Of course, there are those who would destroy the good reputation of pizza. I’m looking at you, Domino’s, Papa John’s, Little Caesar’s and your evil fifth columnists the frozen pizzas. You may have conquered most of America, but you will never, ever take New York. Not on my watch.
Maybe the next governor will have better taste. In pizza, that is.
I guess I should’ve seen it coming. Pizza is as New York as, well, stepping off the curb while waiting for the light to change or being annoyed on the bus by three loud cell phone conversations in three different languages or buying a plain black umbrella during a rainstorm for twice the price that it was yesterday when the weather was sunny.
My earliest happy food memories are of pizza. There was a small place, long gone now that had the red and white checked tablecloths that we’d go to as a treat when I was a pre-kindergartener. There was the time we went to the Nathan’s that expanded into a pizzeria when I was around 10 and my father convinced me that I wanted a lot of hot crushed pepper on my slice. I don’t know if there’s scientific evidence indicating that the tongues of the young are more sensitive to capsaicin, but I can tell you it was true in my case.
In high school, I got a service-credit job delivering office supplies and the stockroom was right by a service exit that led out to the school parking lot adjacent to a the late, great Pizza Town, nee Pizza Clown but then still shaped like a big top. The security guards used to let us sneak over there for some fine pizza and birch beer or alternately an excellent sausage and pepper hero. I say sneak because back then you weren’t allowed to leave the building during class hours – once you were in, you were in. Fortunately the security guards liked us even if one of them did refer to me as “that pear-shaped kid”.
When I was in college, I frequented a hole-in-the-wall joint called Frank’s where depending on my mood I could get two huge plain slices or one stuffed “garbage” slice for $2.50. It was a great lunch and great drunk food and many Deep Thoughts came to me as I ruminated on one of Frank’s bar stools staring into the ancient mirror. I’m pretty sure I could go down there today and find it much as I last left it; one of the reassuring places that hasn’t changed much in decades mainly because it doesn’t need to.
Today pizza provokes angst, joy, and arguments. The angst of deciding if we want thin-crust pizza from our favorite local bar or “regular’ pizza and do we want toppings or not has enveloped many a Friday night’s pre-dinner discussion. The joy of eating great pizza with friends and loved ones. The arguments over where the best pizza is or the ones that result when I eat pizza with out of towners who insist on using a fork and knife which is sacrilege eclipsed only by putting ketchup on a hot dog. Pizza is, in short, everything great food should be: sensual, evocative, and great with beer. It’s food so good, even vegetarians can appreciate it in most of its forms.
Of course, there are those who would destroy the good reputation of pizza. I’m looking at you, Domino’s, Papa John’s, Little Caesar’s and your evil fifth columnists the frozen pizzas. You may have conquered most of America, but you will never, ever take New York. Not on my watch.
Maybe the next governor will have better taste. In pizza, that is.
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