Their names are infamous: Pizza Hut, Domino’s, Little Caesar’s,
Poppa John’s and Sbarro are among these spawn of evil incarnate. Even worse are
those new “take and bake” places like Papa Murphy’s (What the HELL kind of a
name is that for a legendary Italian food?). These places give you horrifying
junk and then blame YOU if it didn’t turn our right, because, after all, it’s
YOUR oven.
Everyone knows that frozen pizza is pathetic. Because, of
course, you freeze the ingredients.
And as I have been up and down the Atlantic Coast several
times and have recently completed my third cross-country trip, I have been
exposed to these impostors. I know the best I can hope for is some processed
cheese melted on all kinds of imitation crusts with packaged meat and other ingredients
tossed in.
For those of you who live west of the Delaware River, one
has to understand why these foul impostors are rarely around between the river
and ocean. It’s because New York is THE city. It is where many immigrants came
to our shore, especially the (are you ready for this?) Italians.
And so one must experience pizza in one of the thousands of
small pizza places that dot the metropolitan area. The impostors are rare. They simply can't compete with the quality. The crust is thin, but not
so thin as the slice can’t be folded in half as one eats it. The cheese is
fresh, the sauce is home madeand perfectly spiced. And despite their small size, these pizzerias
provide a bountiful menu of Italian-American dishes including veal, chicken,
sausage and meatballs served with an infinite variety of pastas, cheese and sauces – or
as classic heros.
Alas, I am in Oregon, about 30 miles west of Portland. And these
imposters are everywhere. It makes me very nervous as my frugal lifestyle has
boosted my credit rating to ridiculous highs. And I am often sorely tempted to
head to PDX and fly back home, if only for a real meal in Brooklyn, Queens or
even Jersey. Could there be anything more wonderful than take-out with a
fabulous friend? (Especially if she lived in Denville!)
My love for pizza and other Italian foods began when I was a
callow youth of about 10 tender years of age. You may ask why it took so long to have pizza,
and you may. I had eaten spaghetti out of a can and occasionally my mother
would make it with canned tomato sauce, not the sauce you think of. It was the
tasteless, spiceless kind. But what did she know? She was Irish. And so on a
hot summer day at a beach along the Rockaway River in Mt. Tabor, New Jersey, I
approached the snack bar. And on the counter was pizza. It was truly lousy
pizza, but even then, it was wonderful.
And so, my mother had been forced to journey to Fred’s
Pizza, located in my hometown of Morristown, New Jersey, every other Friday (payday) where
we would enjoy an epicurean delight of
“two slices and a soda.”
And then things got serious. When I was married, we
discovered that the Daily News had rated the best pizza place in New York City was about five blocks from where we lived and we went there
many times. But to be honest, it was about the same as just about every other pizzeria
in New York. I was especially fond of a small little place in the Greenpoint
section of Brooklyn. It was a few blocks from my in-laws home and had
incredible chicken and veal Parmesan. The last time I ate there was on my way
home after selling the house. I went about sixty miles out of my way to eat
there, and it was well worth it.
Anyhow, except for a few weeks in New Jersey in October of
2013, I have been out of touch with the “real” stuff since I hit the road full
time in 2012.
And thus in Banks, Oregon, I tripped upon the antipizza.
Banks is a small town. It has little retail, but it does have a small
supermarket. Next to it is “Main Street Pizza.” As we enter, you are warned. It is not for the faint of heart. I
approached the counter and asked for two cheese slices and a soda. I get a
blank stare from the counterman. “Sorry, we only sell slices between 11 and 1.”
WTF????? The entire NYC metro culture, not to mention the
economy, is based on two slices and a soda. A place that did that on Long
Island wouldn’t last a week. And so I reviewed the menu. It had sandwiches. A
sausage and pepper would be great. They didn’t have it; nor did they have
chicken, or veal. The girl at the counter never heard of them! How can you work
in a pizza place and NOT know about veal parmesan? They had ham, Swiss, roast
beef, cheddar and other sandwiches without a hint of salami, pepperoni or provolone.
Would you like an antipasti? Good luck, they didn’t even serve pasta! And forget
meatballs. Even the nearby Subway sells meatball sandwiches for $5!
In the tradition of the Portland region, however, they did
sell eight varieties of microbrew beer.
As I was leaving, wondering if the Chinese restaurant next
door knew how to make chow mien without noodles, I passed by a table and
noticed that the pizza didn’t look half bad. In fact, it looked and smelled
about the same as the beach pizza I had more than half a century ago. And so I
ordered a large pie. I went shopping at the local market and the pie was ready
when I was finished. I brought it home, opened it and discovered the pie was
sliced into 12 pieces. That was weird. The “real” way to eat pizza is to fold it
in half so the oil can drip on your shirt as you bring it to your mouth. That works with eight slices. I was tempted to describe the slice as "lice" — one letter shy of a slice."
And so, my memories of real pizza still intact, I tasted it.
And it wasn’t half bad! In fact it was good – not as good as east of the
Delaware – but good enough to be the best west of the Delaware. The crust was
perfect, and the cheese and sauce in correct proportions. I had four of the
“slices” and divided the other eight into four bags and put them into the
fridge for future meals.
Cold pizza for breakfast? Oh yeah!
