oh, oh domino

 Oh jeez.... another blog post about pizza? 

Since I began this blog, I have written exclusively about pizza eight times and mentioned pizza too many times to count. Well, whether you like it or not, here is another tale/rant about pizza, which now, I suppose, has revealed itself to be a favorite topic of mine. Right up there with television. When I was a kid, my dad was convinced that the only food I ate was pizza. I'm not sure if this was some kind of "diss" in his mind, but I do not recall ever seeing my father consume a single slice of pizza. Ever. I don't know if he was truly expressing concern for my questionable eating habits or if he was just repeating one of those "I'll never understand these kids today" fallacies that seem to attach themselves to generation after generation.

I like pizza. I have always liked pizza. And, as I have mentioned previously, I am not very discerning when it comes to pizza. I firmly believe that there is no such thing as "bad pizza." Recently, a less-than-pleasant experience at a conveniently-located and frequently-visited Little Caesar's Pizza forced me to seek another purveyor of pizza close to my home. While this new place — which has been open since 1966 —  is a little closer to my house than Little Caesar's and serves up a decent enough pizza, their prices are ridiculous for a little neighborhood pizza joint. A basic 18" circle of dough with a generous spread of tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese runs a little over twenty bucks. I don't know if this is the going rate for pizzas at independent establishments, but, to be honest (or at least "out of the loop"), most chain pizza places are constantly in a price war. I guess the idea is: if it's cheap, you don't mind the shitty quality... and, again, there is no such thing as "bad pizza," so a twenty dollar pizza should be — by my nonsensical logic — be spectacular. 

Recently, in my search for a new place to get a quick pizza when the back-and-forth debate over "well, what do you want for dinner?" rears its famished head, I have relented and gave our nearby Domino's a redeeming chance. I haven't been to Domino's since my son was in high school and we'd get pizza on a Friday night when my wife was working late at her family's store. (My son is now 37 and my wife's family's business has been closed for nearly two decades.) It wasn't that I had anything against Domino's, it's just we found good "bad" pizza elsewhere for cheaper. But, just this past weekend, Mrs. P and I decided to give Domino's  a call... except, as you probably already know... ordering a pizza doesn't work like that anymore. It's now done — like most automated, contact-free processes — online through an app.

I downloaded the Domino's app. I found it to be very user friendly and very easily navigable, although I did nearly order a pizza with no cheese until the intuitive app guided me back to the toppings section of my order. After I placed my order, paid with a credit card and received an emailed receipt and confirmation, the Domino's app sprang into action. When I signed up for an account, I was asked for my cellphone number. I assumed it was merely for identification purposes. Oh, no, no, no. I immediately received a text with something called "Domino's Tracker." The Domino's Tracker offered me real time, step-by-step progress of how my pizza was doing. It skipped the "Order Received" Level 1 and moved right ahead to the Level 2 "We're Firing it up!" This was exciting. As I readied a couple of paper plates and a stack of paper napkins before I set out on the eight-minute drive to Domino's, I was alerted that my prepared pizza had entered to oven, which is Level 3 on the Tracker. 

On my drive, my phone signaled me several more times. When I finally reached the tiny parking lot at my nearby Domino's, I parked and checked my phone before entering the store. My phone had logged three progress reports from Domino's, including a final request to let the good folks inside that I had arrived and was on my way in to collect my pizza. This could be easily accomplished by clicking a big red button that read "I'M ON MY WAY IN!" Simple enough! 

There was a huddle of workers behind the small counter inside Domino's. Some of the young men were busily assembling pizzas. Others were surveying a computer screen, searching for the correct order to stuff into their insulated bag and speed off to deliver to a hungry family or single stoned guy in his mother's basement. Upon spotting me walk in, a young man greeted me with a standard, "Can I help you?" I told him I was picking up an order for "Josh." He asked me to repeat my name while he scanned a stack of similar-looking boxes with receipts taped to their fronts. As I finished the "SH" in "Josh," he plopped a box into my hands and thanked me for choosing Domino's.

I brought the pizza home and Mrs P and I ate our dinner. It was fine. It was nothing special. It was just okay. During dinner, however, I received another text and two emails from Domino's. Over the course of last week, I received at least two emails per day — per day! — from Domino's. Each day brought a new offer or reminder or discount from the marketing staff at Domino's. I just needed to make one more order from Domino's to receive a free pizza said one email. Another email informed me of a free "emergency pizza" could be ordered from my local Domino's at any time, as long as that time occurred before November 21st. (Technically, isn't every pizza an "emergency pizza?") I am expecting a few more messages of enticement from Domino's any minute now.

So far, I have only placed the one order with Domino's. Who knows if and when I will place the next one. If my father was still with us, he'd probably say that order will be placed as soon as I finish writing this blog post. But he didn't know what a blog post was.

Pizza... that he knew.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

time has come today

I love Wawa. As a life-long resident of Philadelphia (and now the Philadelphia suburbs), I believe it is my duty as a citizen to love Wawa. Wawa has stores throughout the Greater Philadelphia and New Jersey area and have recently expanded to include locations operating in Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington, D.C., Florida, Alabama, and North Carolina — with its corporate sights set on Georgia, Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio, Tennessee, New York and Connecticut in the near future. If you don't live in one of these lucky states, let me explain what exactly Wawa is.

Wawa is the greatest convenience store there ever was. Wawa runs circles around places like 7-11 (except for Japanese 7-11s, which, by all accounts, rival Disneyland). Sure, Wawa sells a smattering of groceries for those who run out of something-or-other and need to fill in before their next supermarket run. Yeah, they sell pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream for a little over eight bucks, but Wawa is not a grocery store. Wawa is Wawa! it's a place to stop for great coffee and a fresh packaged baked good on your way to work. It's a place to grab a pre-made sandwich or snack or salad or — better yet — get a custom-made sandwich or hoagie from their innovative (and intuitive) touchscreens. Over the years, since Wawa introduced the made-to-order system, they have branded themselves as the "go-to" place for quick-serve meals. It's become as "Philadelphia" as The Liberty Bell, chucking snowballs at Santa Claus and soft pretzels.... oh! and they have soft pretzels, too. Sure, there are a lot of people in Philadelphia that do not like Wawa — some of whom I know personally, but I still choose to remain friends with them. 

Wawa's hoagies are just fine, as far as I'm concerned. Granted, as a vegetarian, my choices are limited. I switch between a mixed cheese, tuna and roasted vegetables varieties — three choices that die-hard Philadelphia hoagie aficionados will tell you don't belong anywhere near a hoagie. I cannot speak on behalf of any of Wawa's "meat" variety of hoagies, so I will not pass any judgement. Their custom-made salads are good, too. Wawa has added a number of different sandwich options to their menu, including paninis, quesadillas (with customers readily pronouncing both "L"s in that word) and wraps. They have also bolstered their expanding menu with breakfast options like oatmeal and egg sandwiches. More recently, Wawa has begun to offer milkshakes, smoothies, and whipped cream topped coffee beverages that rival Starbucks. Plus, their "annual hoagiefest" seems to pop up way more than "annually."

A few months ago, Wawa introduced pizza to the Wawa stable of made-to-order fare with a campaign they mounted as though no one in the Philadelphia area had ever heard of pizza before. (Full disclosure: Aside from the various national pizza chains that dot the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia boasts a "Mom & Pop" pizza place approximately every fifteen feet.) Nevertheless, Wawa sang the assured praises of their pizza, flooding the area with billboards and commercials and plastering their stores with the simple mantra: "Wawa has pizza!" The phrase was ubiquitous. It grew to sound like a threat. It was apparent that Wawa spent a ton of money outfitting their stores with some sort of pizza oven (these were concealed "in the back" and out of customer's view) and training their minimum-wage employees in the fine art of the culinary preparation required to produce a pizza that Wawa would be proud to put its name on. (For a frame of reference, Wawa has no problem with feeding customers macaroni & cheese or soup out of an 80 ounce food service bag, so their sense of "pride" is questionable.) Needless to say, local pizzerias have nothing to fear.

Mrs. Pincus and I do not fancy ourselves as "food connoisseurs." We like what we like. We don't frequent pretentious restaurants. And we are fine with getting hoagies from Wawa a few times a week. It's convenient, relatively inexpensive and a stop on the way home from work only takes about twenty minutes. Our interest was piqued by Wawa's big pizza "roll out." So, when the good folks at Wawa offered one of their pizzas for five bucks (if ordered through their easy-to-navigate app), we were all in. Hey, I've eaten Little Caesar's pizza and I am convinced that there is no such thing as "bad pizza." So, five bucks was good enough for us to give it a try.

Wawa's pizza is okay. Just okay. It's kind of like the pizza you got in the cafeteria in elementary school. Not horrible. Not terrific, Just.... well.... okay. We ordered, and picked it up at a nearby Wawa. (We live in close proximity to four Wawas, all about the same distance from our house.) When we got it home and opened the box, it looked just like the pizza they display in their commercials. Perfect! Perfectly golden brown crust. Perfectly yellow-y cheese melted in a perfectly symmetrical circle equidistant all around from the crust, with a perfect border of red tomato sauce serving as a barrier/border between the cheese and the crust. It looked fake. I'm sure you've seen those videos of how they used food-like alternatives in commercials to showcase food products — like motor oil in place of pancake syrup or white school glue in place of milk in cereal or mashed potatoes (that won't melt under the studio lights) in place of scooped ice cream. Wawa's pizza appeared to be a reasonable facsimile of pizza. It tasted..... okay. Without the special deal, a Wawa pizza is fifteen dollars. I can get a larger, better tasting pizza for nineteen dollars just a few doors down from a Wawa near us.

Well, Wawa started offering us five bucks off the price of a pizza (when ordered through the app) nearly every weekend. So, I buckled and ordered on a Saturday evening. When the total was calculated, a full ten dollars was deducted from the price, leaving a final total of just five dollars. I selected the time I'd like my order to be ready from a list of times broken down in five minute increments. I also elected to have the pizza brought out to our car. I clicked and clicked and clicked and my order was placed. We arrived at Wawa #8080. We parked and — through the app — I let Wawa know in which numbered space we were parked. Several long minutes after our selected "ready" time, a Wawa employee emerged from the front doors carrying a large pizza box. He walked right past our car. My wife and I looked at each other. Mrs. P started the car and we slowly followed the guy with the pizza as though we were looking for an address on an unfamiliar street. He took our pizza on a little stroll and turned the corner of the building, headed back to the front door. Before he went back inside, Mrs. P called out, "Hey! Is that our pizza?" The guy adjusted his Wawa visor and asked, "Order for Josh?" Mrs. P replied in the affirmative and he handed over the pizza. We got it home and ate it. It was fine. Maybe a little overdone this time. Someone didn't read the training manual as closely as they should have.

In subsequent weeks, we began to order pizza from Wawa nearly every Saturday. We kept getting offers for five dollars off and they kept miscalculating the discount, leaving a grand total of five dollars. However, even after choosing a "ready" time in the app, I have had to wait at least twenty minutes for my order. Each time. Sometimes, I had to flag down an employee to check the status of my order. The employee's report of "it'll just be a few more minutes" was always punctuated with an apology. They seemed to be used to the question and accustomed to rendering apologies. After a few incidents of waiting too long for an "okay" pizza, I switched Wawas. 

I decided to give Wawa #8066 a chance, placing my "usual Saturday usual discount" order. I arrived a few minutes before my selected "ready" time. The sandwich makers were busy making sandwiches. Customers placed orders and picked up their orders as I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a Wawa employee started refilling shelves near where I was impatiently waiting. As he got closer to me, he asked, "How are you today sir?" in a very "customer-service-y" tone. I told him I was waiting for an order that should have been ready fifteen minutes ago. He aske for the order number and promised to check the status. He disappeared behind the sandwich prep area and quickly returned with a solemn look on his face. With the somber demeanor of a surgeon delivering adverse results to a grieving family in a hospital waiting room, he said, "They're remaking your order. It stuck to the pan and they weren't happy with the presentation. I'm sorry. It'll just be a few minutes." It was fifteen more minutes. Ultimately, he handed me a warm pizza box along with another apology. I wonder if "apologies" are the final chapter of the "How To Make A Wawa Pizza" instruction course. I brought the pizza home. It was fine. Maybe a little burnt in some places and the cheese was placed a little unevenly, but it was fine.

Once again, Saturday brought another pizza discount from Wawa. Mrs. P and I gave in to the offer. I would be giving Wawa #0276 an opportunity to redeem the good name of Wawa. I placed my order as I had in the past, selecting my "ready" time as 5:40 PM, giving me enough time to pick up my pizza and get it home before the 6:05 start of the evening's Phillies game. I arrived a few minutes ahead of 5:40 and waited. At 5:39 on the dot, a guy behind the counter stopped what he was doing and retreated to the unseen "back," returning with a pizza box a few seconds later. I approached the glass separating the customers from the workers and pointed to the pizza. At 5:40 exactly, he place the pizza box in my waiting hands. After a little trial and error, I think I found the correct Wawa.

This pizza was okay. Maybe a bit more overdone that it should have been. Maybe the cheese had shifted a bit to one side. Maybe the crust was a little dry in places and chewy in others. Maybe the slices were uneven and not cut all the way through.

Maybe Wawa pizza isn't really that great. Maybe it really isn't even that good.

But I do love Wawa. Just like Bryce Harper. I bet he doesn't have to wait for pizza. I bet he doesn't get pizza from Wawa.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

never going back again

Last Sunday, Mrs. Pincus wanted pizza. Sometimes, during the week, I'll get a text from my wife asking if there would be "surprise pizza" when I arrive home from work. That is code for me to stop at the Little Caesar's Pizza that I pass and pick up dinner on my commute home. I have written of my love for all pizza and my declaration that there is no such thing as "bad pizza," so this subject will not be addressed here. If you have contrary feelings about pizza, please.... this is not the time. I have no problem with Little Caesar's Pizza. Yes, I know. it is shitty "chain store" pizza. I am well aware of that. I don't care. As I have stated before, it is pretty hard to fuck up crust, cheese and sauce. Okay? Okay.

Sunday is rarely "pizza day" at the Pincus house. But Mrs. Pincus wanted pizza and it was Sunday, so who was I to argue jumped in the car and drove over to the Little Caesar's Pizza that I pass on my usual route home from work. Mrs. P parked the car and I hopped out head to the entrance of Little Caesar's. Once inside, I was taken aback by the amount of people who had the same craving for pizza at the same time. The small customer area was packed with anxious folks. Some were queued up to the counter and others paced anxiously, waiting to be summoned for their already-placed order. I was surprised, because when I stop here on my way home from work, the place is empty and my order is ready in just a few minutes. I guess weekends — or maybe just Sundays — are a different story.

I also noticed that there was one person on the other side of the counter. One. Just one. She was taking orders at the cash register. I could see past the service counter that the pizza preparation area was empty. Apparently, the young lady taking orders was the only employee on duty at this time. I stood in the queue line, quietly waiting behind three other customers, while two more folks took their places behind me. Several people milled around, fiddling with their smartphones while they waited for their respective orders. Three more people came in, interrupting the order-taker to ask if their order was ready. After two transaction with people in front of me were completed, the young lady — her face dusted with flour and remnants of tomato sauce on her apron — announced, "I'll be with you in a minute." Her statement was directed to everyone within the sound of her voice.  She left the front counter and began assembling pizza boxes. At the same time she was eyeing the automated pizza oven and checking the orders displayed on a computer terminal above a stainless-steel prep table. The folks in the queue line shifted and collectively exhaled in frustration. The young lady extracted pizzas from the oven, set out dough and toppings, assembled and filled more pizza boxes — all by herself.

I sent a text to my wife waiting in the car. "This is crazy!," I typed, "My order hasn't been taken yet and there is ONE PERSON working."

Mrs. P replied: "Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"Yes." I responded, "Yes I do." I was already out the door as I typed the last word.

Note to self: Pizza on a weekday? Little Caesar's, please. Pizza on a Sunday? Try some place else. 

I love shitty pizza, but I'm not standing in line for it.

Footnote: I got pizza from Little Caesar's since I wrote this story. It was a weeknight, so the place was customarily empty. However, it was taking a very long time for my order to be ready. When pizza was finally handed over, it was accompanied  by an apologetic 2 liter bottle of Pepsi. This was Little Caesar's way of "making good" on a lengthy wait time. Pepsi, I will tell you, is never a good way to apologize, but I understood the sentiment. When I got home, The pizza was undercooked. The giant glob of cheese was closer to the consistency of the weather stripping that runs along the bottom of my front door than anything remotely edible. The crust was not crisp and very bready. Luckily, we rediscovered a neighborhood pizza place that will be getting our business from now on. I'm going there in a few minutes, as a matter of fact.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

I love pizza. My father used to joke (although I don't really think he was joking) that all I ate was pizza. Three meals a day. Breakfast, lunch and dinner — pizza! He wasn't that far off, to be totally honest. I have eaten a lot of pizza in my life.

I am not — nor do I claim to be — a pizza connoisseur. I firmly believe that all pizza is good pizza. Before you start criticizing that statement or attempt to guide or educate me, please read that sentence again. I said "I firmly believe that all pizza is good pizza." "I" believe. Not you. I'm writing this. If you feel differently about pizza, go write your own blog. Are we clear? I truly believe that it is pretty difficult to screw up pizza. I have had good pizza. I have had very good pizza and I have had bad pizza. And guess what? Bad pizza is still good pizza.

When I was a kid, there was a large discount market near my house. It had a number of individual businesses under one roof. It wasn't exactly a mall or a shopping center. They called themselves a "mart" and it was more along the lines of a farmer's market. There was a selection of food counters at the mart, including my first exposure to pizza. The concession was owned and operated by two women who, in hindsight, didn't know the first thing about making pizza. But, in my memory, that pizza was good. Cheese. Sauce. Crust. What else did one need?

I recall at my elementary school, those angry women in the hairnets would concoct their version of the Italian staple on hamburger rolls left over from the day-before's lunch menu... the one where they thought they were giving McDonald's a run for their money. The surplus rolls were placed crust-side-down on a large tray. They each got a dollop of red sauce straight from an industrial size can and topped with a half slice of American cheese. Then the tray was set under the giant broiler until just before the burning point... usually. For 35 cents, you got two "burger bun" pizza, a scoop of limp string beans and a cup of Jello — the last two items, of course, never to be eaten. I even liked that pizza. Even the ones that passed the burning threshold.

As my life experiences expanded beyond my little Northeast Philadelphia cocoon, I encountered actual pizza. Pizza made by actual trained pizza chefs. Burly guys in athletic shirts, a red cloth tied tightly around their necks, expertly tossing a huge circle of pizza dough in the air like those jugglers I saw on the Ed Sullivan Show. They'd shove prepared pies into a hot narrow oven and extract the same a few moments later on a large wooden paddle — all in a choreographed ballet. They had names like "Piasano's" and "Luigi's" and "Frank's" (short for "Francesco") and the slices they served were as big as your head. And they were good. Of course, they were good. When I was in high school, I frequented Philadelphia's famed South Street nearly every weekend. It was the epicenter of "what was happening" among my peers. Whether you went to see a weekly midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, or just came to hang out, South Street was hopping with activity. And where there was teenage activity, there was pizza. When my friends and I would descend upon South Street, our first stop was the aforementioned Franks, a small pizzeria next to a cool little stationery store. Frank, who I don't believe spoke a word of English, made great pizza. It was hot and cheesy and spicy and the slices, once lifted off the flimsy, grease-coated paper plate, needed to be supported by both hands. And — boy! — was it good!

I've had pizza all over Philadelphia. I've had pizza in other states — near and far. I've had pizza in the few other countries I've been to. I've even had pizza in the wee hours of the morning aboard several different cruise ships. And they were all good. All of them.

I reiterate. It is pretty hard to screw up pizza. You may have your particular favorite pizza place. A place that is your "go-to" place. A pizzeria to which you are loyal. One that you insist — insist! — is the best pizza in the world and where you bring friends in an effort to convince them to share your affection. You may engage in hours-long debates about who has the best pizza you've ever eaten, during which you reveal a little known hole-in-the-wall in an unexplored alley with no street address that is run by the great-great-great-great-grandnephew of the actual guy who invented pizza. You may turn your nose up at places like Pizza Hut or Little Caesars. You might cringe at the very idea of Ellio's or DiGiorno. Please. Argue among yourselves because I don't do any of that.

I just love pizza. And all pizza is good pizza.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com

this town ain't big enough for the both of us

Back-to-back blogs about pizza? Really? I must be hungry.

One day last week, my son E. initiated a "no pressure" gathering at a South Philadelphia restaurant/bar in honor of his birthday. The bar — Tattooed Mom's — is a favorite hangout of my son, his girlfriend and their friends. It sits several doors from the corner on the 500 block of  Philadelphia's famed South Street — which was a popular haunt for me in my high school days. When I met Mrs. Pincus, she lived in an apartment just a few blocks from South Street and I even worked at a busy ice cream store on South Street when I was a struggling art student. However, I haven't been down to "where all the hippies meet" in years — ever since I became a full-fledged "suburbanite."

These look delicious,
I couldn't tell you for sure.

Tattooed Mom's is a cool little place with funky decorations on the walls, kitschy board games on the tables and an eclectic selection of beer and cocktails that the hipsters who frequent the place seem to love. Personally, I was looking forward to sampling some of the offerings from their extensive vegetarian menu, specifically their highly-touted "tater tot" concoctions for which they have received local renown. So when Mrs. Pincus and I spotted our son sitting on one of Tattooed Mom's retro sofas surrounded by friends and beer, I reached for a menu while we said our "hellos."

"Hold on there.," my boy said to me with a cautionary tone in his voice. He explained that the waiter had just announced that back in the kitchen, the grill hood stopped working and the food preparation area was filled with smoke — ergo, no food from their enticing menu would be available until further notice.

Needless to say, I was disappointed. So were a lot of other folks. Mrs. Pincus — ever the pragmatist — came to the rescue with some quick thinking. She asked the waiter if it was okay to bring outside food in to Tattooed Mom's. "Sure." he said, "I do it all the time" ....which isn't exactly a rousing endorsement of the edible offerings when the kitchen is operating properly. My wife decided that we'd run out and get a couple of pizzas and bring 'em back. Everyone smiled with relief... and the anticipation of pizza. We walked out to South Street on a mission.

Back in my youth, when I hung out on South Street regularly, I seem to remember a pizza place approximately every four feet. There was Frank's, whose mozzarella-laden ambrosia was the reason people stood in line for a slice. Of course, there was the Philly Pizza Company, immortalized in the Dead Milkmen's 1988 hit "Punk Rock Girl." They had great pizza but obviously met their demise because they only served tea iced. Plus, their jukebox selections left a lot to be desired. These places, we soon discovered, were long gone. Now, it appears, that one Lorenzo and Sons holds a pizza monopoly on South Street, its saucy empire stretching from the Delaware River all the way up to 9th Street where upstart competitor Little Italy has bravely set up shop.

Empire State Building shown
for size reference.

We headed down to Lorenzo and Sons, expecting to bring back three or four pizzas to feed our son's guests. Lorenzo's, we soon found out, only has two items on their menu — and, technically, one is a variation of the other. They sell slices of pizza and whole pizzas. They also sell soda and water, but as far as food options — well, you better like pizza. The whole pizzas — I'd like to point out — measure a whopping twenty-eight inches across. Twenty-eight inches! More that two feet! The slices are as big as your head! While we marveled at the fellow behind the counter piling fistfuls of cheese on a disk of dough approximately the size of a manhole cover, my wife spotted a hand-written sign warning: "CASH ONLY. " A twenty-eight inch pizza was gonna set us back twenty-eight dollars (that's a buck-an-inch to you and me). We checked our wallets. Combined, our funds would barely get us one of these monsters. A skinny ATM stood silently at the end of the unnecessarily-tall counter. Mrs. Pincus reluctantly withdrew additional cash and — based on the size of these things — placed an order for two whole pies. We paid and waited. We watched a few people walk away from the counter with enormous slices of pizza, the edges not fully contained by the flimsy paper plate on which they were dispatched. A mom awkwardly maneuvered the comically-huge point of the slice into her child's tiny, unaccommodating mouth. Two "bros" confidently ordered two slices each, only to exhibit difficulty attempting a uniform first bite.

The young lady behind the counter began to assemble two capacious cardboard boxes which would contain our pizzas for the two and a half block journey back to Tattooed Mom's. The stocky fellow in the back extracted the first colossal pizza from the oven — deftly balancing its bulk on the end of an extra-large wooden peel and depositing it squarely in the box. The young lady cut the giant pie into 16 slices (at our request, making it look like a mutated version of a Chuck E. Cheese pizza) and then fit the barn door-sized lid into place. She opened the next box as another pizza was dropped into place and repeated the process.

Look at those narrow doors.

Now, I'm 57 years old and I have carried lots of pizzas in my life, but I never considered just how much two, twenty-eight inch pizzas would weigh. The answer is: "A lot." As a matter of fact, it was surprisingly — and unnervingly — heavy. At first, I struggled to balance the two pizzas comfortably. After a minute, I believed I was all set to carry these pizzas the.2 miles back to Tattooed Mom's. I barely cleared the narrow door jamb as I exited Lorenzo and Sons, my wife generously holding door open for me. I made a right and hit the gas, not stopping or yielding or even looking at who might be in my path. These pizzas were heavy in my outstretched arms. I did hear a few errant calls of "Whoa!" and "Lookit the size of them pizzas!," but I concentrated on my route, internally hoping I would make it the whole way without turning the South Street sidewalk into a cheesy, saucy, boxy mess.

I kept a steady pace. My feet efficiently covering as much ground as possible per stride. I could feel my arms quivering. I had to stop and rest, if only for a minute. Just before I reached the corner of 4th Street, I found a metal railing that I placed the outside edge of my cargo upon. I supported the closer end of the boxes with my hands as I caught my breath and regained my composure. I glanced around and noticed that the railing was in front of the inexplicably shuttered Jules Pizza — its darkened  and empty interior mocking me. (What pizza place is closed on Sunday? One that's a block and a half closer to Tattooed Mom's than Lorenzo and Sons, that's who! And they probably sell normal, human-sized pizzas!)

Don't eat that.
There's enough pizza for everyone.

I got my second wind and bee-lined it to Tattooed Mom's. I crossed the street with ballet precision and made it to the front door where a nice man from the neighboring shoe store (he was outside grabbing a smoke) opened the door for me. I left poor Mrs. Pincus in the dust, many paces behind me. Once safely inside, my son's guests saw me coming towards them and quickly cleared a space on a low coffee table near the sofa where some folks were seated. I dropped the pizzas and loudly exhaled.

E. excitedly opened the top box to reveal Pizza #1. It was glorious. Big and cheesy and inviting. His friends offered approval, most commenting that they had never seen a pizza this big. Cellphones came out and soon, social media was awash with photos of the first of the two twenty-eight inch pizzas we had brought. As Mrs. P passed out slices and napkins, we were told that the Tattooed Mom's kitchen was up and running.

But... but, we had pizza. And a lot of it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

papa don't preach

Papa Johns pizza sucks. The cloyingly-sweet sauce is awful and the crust tastes like the cardboard box it's delivered in. I love crappy, commercially-produced pizza from chain restaurants, but Papa John's is one step below that stuff they made on day-old hamburger buns that I bought in my elementary school's cafeteria. I tried Papa Johns pizza once. Years ago. And I never went back.

But, Papa Johns is big business, with over 4700 locations world wide and lucrative sponsorship associations with ESPN, the Olympics, The NFL and The Football League in the United Kingdom. Not bad for a company that was started in a converted closet in founder John Schnatter's father's Indiana tavern... and continues, to this day, to make shitty pizza.

Mr Schnatter, who has become the "face" and commercial spokesperson for Papa Johns, (à la Dave Thomas of Wendy's fame), has also become a bit outspoken. He broke the cardinal rule of business by publicly weighing in on the controversial "kneeling during the National Anthem" debate that heated up the NFL and recent headlines. No matter how he feels about the topic, it is in his best interest to keep his mouth shut, or he runs the risk of alienating potential customers who may not share his views. Alienating customers equals poor business relationships and poor business relationships lead to no business relationships.

In July 2018, it was revealed that Schnatter used a racial slur during a business conference. On the same day, Schnatter admitted to using the word and immediately resigned from the Board of Directors of Papa Johns. Two days later, the company removed Schnatter's image from all Papa Johns marketing material. Steve Ritchie, the newly installed CEO, issued a memo stating "racism has no place at Papa Johns."  However, a week or so later, Schnatter filed a lawsuit against Papa John's Pizza to give him access to the company's books and records after they fired him. He described the company's procedures as an “unexplained and heavy-handed way” to cut ties between him and the company that he founded. The company countered by implementing precautions that would prevent Schnatter from buying back a majority stake of Papa Johns stock.

As expected, Papa Johns business suffered. Sales were down across the board as they struggled to introduce a "Schnatter-less" marketing strategy. To date, eleven Major League baseball teams have dumped Papa Johns as a sponsor, as well as the NBA's Utah Jazz and the NFL's Atlanta Falcons. The University of Louisville took Papa Johns name off of their football stadium. See how opening up your big, racist mouth is bad for business?

It seems that the company is taking this very, very seriously. Just this morning I was watching television before I left for work. We all know my love for old TV shows, so I was tuned to Antenna TV, one of several networks whose programming consists of vintage sitcoms going back to The Burns and Allen Show — which I happened to be watching as I enjoyed a cup of coffee. When the show paused for a "word from the sponsor," my 43" flat screen surprisingly lit up with the smiling visage of John Schnatter in his trademark red apron, running his knuckles through a big glob of pizza dough. He was surrounded by a group of smiling Papa Johns employees, all touting the ingredients of the pizza and delivering the company's tagline in unison: "Better Ingredients. Better Pizza. Papa Johns." Then the screen faded to black, quickly switching to an older man singing the praises of his new streamlined catheter. I immediately grabbed my phone and took to Twitter. I punched out a typical "Josh Pincus" assessment of what I just saw...

Pretty witty for twenty minutes after six in the morning. It appeared that I was not the only one awake and scanning Twitter. The folks at Papa Johns Support (@AskPapaJohns) saw my tweet and responded. Without a joke and without the slightest bit of levity. Their tweet was all business and  polite customer relations.

Wow. Papa Johns wants details and wants them now. I happily obliged.

Papa Johns was gracious.

Papa Johns is determined to get John Schnatter out of their lives for good. Apparently, there really is no place for racism at Papa Johns. 

I know from personal experience that "once a racist, always a racist." Even when an apology is offered, racists never change the way they truly feel.

Papa Johns' pizza still sucks, but at least their heart is in the right place.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

all hail caesar

One evening this week, Mrs. Pincus and I went to pick up a pizza for dinner, something we do quite often. It may come as a surprise to you, but we regularly go to a Little Caesars location not far from our house. Unlike most people, we don't really have a single location pizza place that we swear by. We are not connoisseurs or "pizza snobs." We happen to like cheap, crappy, chain-store pizza. We just do.

My wife pulled into the parking lot of the strip center where the Little Caesars occupies the end storefront. I hopped out of the car, like I had done countless times before, and walked up to the front door and entered. The place rarely, if ever, has a welcoming vibe. Through the wire racks of stacked pizza boxes at the rear of the narrow service counter area, I could see several workers — all decked out in branded Little Caesars regalia (hats, shirts, aprons) — busily preparing pizzas at a large work table. Behind them, another fellow was monitoring the business-end of the large oven, extracting finished pizzas by gripping their pans with a pliers-like device and deftly shaking them into a waiting, pre-assembled box. They all appeared to be working in a predetermined rhythm, like the proverbial "well-oiled machine."

However, the young lady at the front counter, the "face" of the "Little Caesar's experience" for this particular location, did not exactly fit in with the rest of the apparent work ethic practiced by those in the nerve center of the establishment.

When I entered the store, to my right, was a man — in a Little Caesars hat and apron — stocking single-serving bottles of soda in a tall refrigerated display case. A few customers (maybe two, actually) were scattered about the open area, obviously waiting for their individual order to be served. Behind the counter, seated on a low object (perhaps a small carton?), was a young lady — I would guess still in her teens — with her back to the wall adjoining the business next store, paying extremely close attention to her cellphone. As I approached the counter, she slowly rose — though not exactly tearing her attention away from whatever was dancing across the small screen in her hand. She was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the named of a local high school. No where on her person did the name or logo of Little Caesars appear. Nowhere. She finally turned her attention to me and asked, "Mmmnnnmmnnmmm."

At least, I think it was a question. Only because the inflection of her utterance went up in tone, slightly, at the end. I honestly has no idea what she said, but I can assume it was along the lines of "Can I take your order?" I asked for a pizza and an order of bread sticks and passed over my credit card to her her limp, waiting hand. She swiped it through the slot on the credit card reader, removed the receipt, handed me back my card and said, "Mmmnnnmm." Then, she promptly returned to her original perch, concentrating, once again on her electronic device and blotting the customers out.

A fellow from the back of the store placed a stack of pizza boxes on the wire rack from behind. The young lady rose slowly, grabbed the boxes and announced "Mmmnnnmm" in the general direction of a woman with short dreadlocks in a dark blue coat who was waiting, patiently, with her arms folded across her chest. The woman accepted the boxes and no more words were exchanged by either party. The young lady repeated this same procedure with the other customer who was waiting for an order to be filled.

Offer not valid where invalid.

After about eight minutes (the "Hot & Ready" promotion as presented in a series of Little Caesars commercials and in-store signage seems to be invalid at this location or in this realm), the young lady muttered her signature, unintelligible grunt at me and offered me a pizza box with a bag of bread sticks resting atop of it. I took it from her hands, thanked her and wished her a good evening. I really did. I headed towards the door, which was held open for me by a new, incoming customer — who would, no doubt, be subjected to the "Little Caesars welcome" that is standard operating procedure at this location.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

amazing grace

In this post, I revisit a previous rant, because it keeps coming up. Thank you for your indulgence. — JPiC

We made plans to meet my brother-in-law* and his family for dinner. The chosen restaurant was a small independent Italian place not too far from their home. Mrs. P and I arrived a good fifteen minutes before I saw their car pull into the tiny parking lot. (That, in itself, was a rarity.) While we waited, we perused the surroundings, taking in the atmosphere, as it was our first time there.

The small, boxy building was obviously something else before it was re-purposed as a restaurant. A row of tables lined the front of the building whose wall was a large, multi-pane, picture window. On the other side of a narrow aisle was a diner-like, low counter sporting old-fashioned swivel stools, with wait service from the open kitchen across the sparkling white Formica. In the corner, situated near the cashier, was an imposing coal-fired oven, its glowing embers visible through the brick-lined, semi-circular opening. A stocky fellow, with a bandanna knotted around his perspiring head, shoveled pizza after hand-prepared pizza into the fiery depths of the oven, carefully monitoring the quick cooking time and withdrawing perfectly-browned pies for eager (and hungry) customers. A glass-sided case displayed the many exotic, gourmet pizza offerings. 

Mrs. P and I marveled at the wide array of selections — both the meat and meat-free varieties — all made from various combinations of over two dozen available toppings. They were colorful specimens, decked out in brightly-hued peppers, onions, tomatoes and other assorted vegetables. Others were chock full of huge hunks of sausage, large disks of pepperoni and big globs of ricotta cheese. Each one was an edible work of art, beautifully presented and each more appetizing than the last.

Soon, we were joined by our familial dinner companions, who were equally as surprised that we beat them to our destination. (Obviously, we have gained ourselves a reputation in the "tardy" department.) While we waited for a recently-vacated table to be cleared and cleaned, my brother-in-law began to extol the virtues of this establishment, as he and his family are frequent patrons. 

"The pizza here is amazing." he avowed.

Ugh! There's that word again. "Amazing!" Oh, how I have come to loathe that word. Well, not so much the word itself, but the over-usage and application to everyday, decidedly non-amazing things. I don't know when it started, but "amazing" has become the go-to standard description for anything that is not horrible. And I mean anything. And it has gotten out of hand. Listen for it everyday. People describe everything from their children to a movie to a piece of fish as "amazing." Merriam-Webster defines "amazing" as "causing amazement, great wonder, or surprise." Now, is that an accurate description of a lump of ground beef on a bun? Or your kid bringing home a gold star on a third-grade math test that thirty other kids in the class and hundred other kids in the school took? Does that really evoke "great wonder or surprise?" Amazing? Really? Y'know, if everything is amazing, then nothing is amazing.

I grimaced at my brother-in-law's assessment of the pizza. I told him that I rarely find that any situation begs for the word "amazing" as a suitable description and I have never ever used it in reference to food. I like food. I like food a lot, but I have never had any food that I would classify as "amazing." You can add "life-changing" and "to die for," as well. Food is "good." Sometimes it's "very good," even "excellent," but never — and I mean never — amazing.

Amazing.

"You know what's 'amazing'?," I told him, "The story of Zion Harvey. That's amazing!" I related the story of Zion Harvey, an 8-year-old boy whose hands and feet were amputated after he contracted a life-threatening infection as a toddler. Little Zion underwent a grueling 10-hour operation in which doctors grafted an operational hand onto each of his wrists. He is now receiving intense daily sessions of physical therapy to strengthen his new hands and to enhance his coordination and dexterity. He is admirably brave and, at the same time, blasé about his situation. He stoically stated that he looks forward to one day holding his baby sister. That is, in every sense of the word — amazing. Does a slab of dough decorated with cheese, sauce and a few tomatoes rate in the same category as doctors guaranteeing that a courageous child receives a second chance at a normal life? I don't think so.

Not amazing.

The pizza was pretty good. Very good actually. But amazing? It was just pizza.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*not that one, the other one.