A Return to Pizza Normalcy
I know there are a lot of social issues more important than pizza. But when pizza’s not social, that’s a big issue.
I think about pizza a lot these days. Not in any particularly deep way, but I consider it as a dinner possibility almost every night. Sometimes that consideration triggers a deeper craving within me, and I find myself walking up Second Avenue toward Vinnie’s, stepping inside and ordering three pieces of chicken bacon ranch pizza. This is the best kind of pizza that they make at Vinnie’s. It tastes extremely good. I usually walk back to my apartment a little faster than I walked to Vinnie’s, because I’m very excited to eat the three pieces of chicken bacon ranch pizza I just purchased. Yes, I always eat all three of them. If someone were to approach me on my way home and ask if they could have a slice of my chicken bacon ranch pizza from Vinnie’s, I would say, “No.” Furthermore, if someone intercepted me on this short, four-block journey and tried to take my pizza away from me, I would fight them vigorously. To the death, if necessary. The pizza at Vinnie’s really is quite good.
But as the loneliest year of our lives drags on, I’ve become more aware of my use of this delicious pizza as a kind of medication. I almost never enjoy it with anyone else. My roommate is lactose-intolerant, and the Vinnie’s Chicken Bacon Ranch Experience is a lactose immersion. Pizza parties are a no-go in 2020, as are the vast majority of gatherings that could potentially revolve around the shared enjoyment of pizza. So I scarf down those three hearty slices in solitude. In April, it was typically a ten-minute meal. In July, I was putting all three slices away in about six minutes. Suddenly it’s November, and the Vinnie’s Chicken Bacon Ranch Experience is now the world’s saddest two-minute drill. I might as well get it delivered it to my doorstep in a syringe.
I never intended for my relationship with pizza to be this dysfunctional. For 26 years, pizza and I maintained healthy boundaries, communicated with each other clearly and honestly, and knew when we needed to give each other some space. Sure, we had our stages of co-dependency. What relationship doesn’t? By and large, the mutual respect was there. But then 2020 happened, and I slowly but surely began to fill the void of community with chicken bacon ranch pizza. Pizza that would be so much more delicious in the company of friends. And that’s what pizza is really about, right? It’s about sharing a large pepperoni pizza with your favorite people, having a few laughs and then eyeing that last piece until someone awkwardly takes it.
I realized how far off the pizza course we’d gone as a country while standing in line to vote for the new leader of America. A young man, who I assumed was either a poll worker or a volunteer, walked out of the building with three boxes of pizza and a big smile on his face. He made his way down the sidewalk, offering free pizza to hundreds of hungry voters. The line wrapped around the entire block twice, but this guy couldn’t have paid a single person to take even one pepperoni. He probably could have circled the block three times and still had all three pizzas.
We all just stood there and stared at him. Free pizza used to be the happiest thing in the world. Not anymore. It’s 2020, and nobody wants any part of that giant, disgusting pizza. Who knows how many dirty, human hands have touched it? Stay away, idiot. Society isn’t a thing anymore. Neither is communal pizza. That’s a society thing. It’s over. We showed up today to try to get communal pizza world back. If we still lived in communal pizza world, a lot of us wouldn’t be here, guy.
Look, I don’t know how far off communal pizza world is. Maybe it’s never coming back. I hope it does, though. And I hope it comes back soon, because this is getting embarrassing for me. A few nights ago, I cursed under my breath after walking into Vinnie’s and realizing that, for one night only, the bacon had been withheld from that sweet, sweet triple-threat lineup of toppings that have taken on such a ritualistic role in my life. (The reason for this was never clearly explained to me by the staff at Vinnie’s.) It was the moment after muttering, “This is bullshit..” that I considered the dark possibility that this is simply what pizza is for me now. A soulless routine of satisfying those appetites that I have willingly given myself over to in this strange life of solitude.
But I don’t really want that. So no matter how wishful my thinking, I will envision a future of deeply social pizza. And if the rest of the country re-socializes pizza before New York does, I will go to New Jersey for it. Or Connecticut. Or wherever. I will fly back to my hometown if I have to. I will fly to Memphis, and I will find two friends, and we will drive to Cici’s Pizza on Mendenhall. We will stand in the unlimited pizza buffet line, and we will pile all sorts of carbohydrates onto our plates with gladness. We will make our way to the final station, the dessert buffet, and a fat child will cough on the last piece of chocolate pizza right in front of me. I will put that piece on my plate, and I will eat it, and it will be delicious. And all will be right with the world.