Photo courtesy of Rosati's Pizza
Editor's Note: This is part three of an essay by Shepherd food writer Todd Lazarski. Read part one here, part two here, part four here and part five here.
“I see that the world is upside down, seems that my pockets were filled up with gold.”
—Tom Waits
My grandmother never allowed pizza delivery. Pizza—yes, most definitely, frequently, likely for a medically inadvisable percentage of grandma-house meals, but only if you took her keys, locked the door behind you, drove the Malibu—tape deck stacked with Electric Ladyland, for just such necessary excursions—across town and schlepped the steaming box back yourself, again locking the door behind you.
I’m not sure if it was an abject fear of delivery personnel, something nefarious laying in an unknown driver lurking, even if said lurking was only out of pepperoni remittance and tip hope. Maybe it was the tip itself, an avoidance of sorts. Or it could have been the disclosing of her address. Maybe she was in trouble with the law. Maybe all, or a combination, or something else, all rolled together into one of those nebulous anxiety yarn balls one comes to know and generally acknowledge and accept when hungry and negotiating with a late-80s grandmother.
So I’d never really ask, would shrug with mild annoyance, take the keys, and let her pay with a crisp twenty-dollar-bill, because in hindsight, I’m not nearly as thoughtful as I’d like to believe.
The New Great Depression?
Similarly, this is probably how I don’t know much, anything really, about the Great Depression. Grandma was born in 1925, which, according to Wikipedia, means she spent much of her childhood in said epoch of forlorn-toned black-and-white photos of destitute pea pickers in California. She would have been a good source, I suppose, for all the wonder I’ve put on, of late, the D-word, in both proper noun form and the more loose, casual way it’s been thrown about. “I think he’s depressed” has become a standard line. Friends talking about other friends, co-workers talking about spouses, somebody talking about me, maybe.
But over the past eight weeks I’ve heard it at least a handful of times, accepted it, took it with brow-furrowed, middling resiliency, as if it were part of a bad but expected forecast. As if, yes, “might have to shovel tomorrow.” Or like a thing meant for small-talk chewing and grumbling, as in, “I’m not sure about that first round pick.” When Kai Ryssdal comes floating in on the kitchen radio I switch the channel before the capital form of the word comes up. I usually have to hurry.
I should have asked her, I suppose, in hindsight, it being one of those many things we all only now realize we should have always asked, said, paid attention to, thought about, considered. Before the world turned sideways, began coughing, lost sense of taste and smell, and we all woke up with our furniture seemingly turned to face the wall. Before she died. It might have been especially helpful since of late I’ve found the same pizza delivery paranoia creeping in.
Though of all the faults I blame on genetics, this is hardly one—it can’t be Adult Onset Delivery Dread, it came far too fast. And I still don’t understand it fully: do I fear the boxes, or the bringer? Or do I fear the bringer's perception of me, sitting in my ivory tower, looking down on the help, or not looking at all, just expecting them to, yes, drop the sustenance on my luxuriant, sanitary doorstep? And then be gone, faceless servant. Or is it maybe that I don’t want to infect them? Did he or she think of that? Should I go out and tell them? Or maybe just put up a sign on the closed door: It’s Not You, It’s Me.
Should I try at some levity, one of these days, maybe attempt a recreation of the “keep the change you filthy animal” scene from “Home Alone”? But, of course, nobody takes cash anymore, so it wouldn’t work.
Anticipating Pizza
Whatever the approach, the newfound anxiety has been robbing a righteous, innocent joy of late. The sweet echo of a doorbell, startling, even as you sit with perked ear and open Ring app, leaning a bit with anticipation. It might be right now, this second, or in 35 minutes. Or, what if they never show? You make the call and are transported to Dr. Seuss’ Waiting Place. Patience and perspective needing to be fought for amidst the mad sea of slack-jawed seekers. A ‘90s Civic with bad brakes and problematic bumper stickers, a goateed driver with questionable politics often the only thing to bring you back to the moment, offering deliverance, unveiling the places you will go, the tastes you will have, the boom bands you will hear and the balloon-high heights you will see. “Should you turn left or right, or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?” At this point of rescue, like no other in life, it matters only that you know how to find your way to the door, can manage not to trip carrying a box back to the coffee table.
Whether or not grandma was right, or had a reason, or had an outstanding warrant, and whether or not we’ll all get over our cardboard fear and food conveyance dread and Clorox addiction and the balance of common sense versus Medium articles versus FDA guidelines versus something somebody in the office Slack channel said, it still has to be done. And at the very least she was right, like all grandmas seem right, about the most important thing being the bringing of comfort. Or the going and getting of comfort. So, my car or there’s, these are the best current bets for said pizza procuring solace.
Ned’s Pizza 3426 S. 27th Street 414-645-2400 places.singleplatform.com
Through the years, through my decade-and-a-half of Milwaukee life, through an adulthood of being judge and jury and general jerk about pizza, I’ve never really cared much for Ned’s, or the “Milwaukee-style” pie it so well seems to epitomize. I’ve always found the crust too thin, crackly, unfilling, the specials seem over-topped, the entire thing often feels a bit under-cooked, the cheese a tad too slidey, the sauce slightly over sweet.
Quarantine week two though was weekend-ed with my wife and her friends sharing Ned’s, collectively, each with their own pie, over a happy hour Zoom meeting. It was such an innovative act of community, togetherness, pizzaing, that I was softened toward epiphany. And then later, as I greedily, guiltily, drunkenly mawed microwaved leftover squares after she had gone to bed, I finally disabused myself of all lofty notions as if I were a Dickens character.
Ned’s is old-school, since ‘69, simple comfort of hometown iconicism. The pizza itself too has an undeniable tang, a distinct crumbly soul, a sausage-y quotidian satisfaction level akin to a High Life bottle and the Brewers on a daytime bar corner TV. At a time the Brewers are good. Most importantly: it is the pizza of my wife’s youth. There are few things tastier than nostalgia, and nothing more comforting. And so Ned’s always has a place in the heart, in our home, in our refrigerator, especially when she orders too much and goes to bed too early.
Rosati’s Pizza 145 W. Oklahoma Ave. 414-489-7191 rosatispizza.com
The five years I spent in suburban Chicago, coming of age and hitting my pizza peak, happened to coincide with adolescence and the accompanying boundless, obscene appetites. A standard chicken or egg scenario. This is maybe why I keep coming to defend Rosati’s, our locally-owned franchise location’s sometime inconsistency, and why I keep going back, here, and to all Chicago-bred ilk. There is the personal sway of the one that got away, the one that taught me to be a man, of the person you’d go out of town to a 10-year-reunion just to get a glimpse of and awkward drink with.
But there is also no objective argument to the fact Rosati’s aspires to, and often achieves, the ideal of Chicago tavern-style: rolled dough, thin, square cut wedges of well-cooked crunch, trademarked by a cornmeal dust bottom and oregano and fennel-y finish. The cheese often looks like the color of approaching-autumn, the crust like it was two minutes from being burnt. Equally crispy and chewy, the toppings are half-buried under a winter blanket of mozz like endless hidden prizes. But maybe it’s just personal. And really a takeout here is akin to reliving high school’s zenith. If I really want to go down that Springsteen route, like the part in the song where he sees his ol’ baseball playing bud, and they go back in and have a few drinks, I get a pie and an Italian beef. Glory Days.
Transfer Pizzeria Café 101 W. Mitchell Street 414-763-0438 transfermke.com
Of the 30 or so times I’ve eaten at Transfer, I’d say 29 of them I’ve eschewed all normal pies, disregarded all pasta or apps, ignored the menu or anything the waiter was saying or what anyone else at the table might want, really, in tunnel-vision favor of the simply named, boldly furnished Garlic Lovers. It is a special of aromatic, crushed bulb bombardment, almost stunt-like in essence, that somehow holds together. Sturdy enough to steer with one hand, the pleasantly dusty and charred bottom still has a doughy, Southern Italian-leaning chewiness. The decadent top is garlic sauce svelty, with pepperoni and sausage and cheese chunkily clattering together, as delightful black air bubbles adorn the edges, indicating artisanal-ness, craft pizza lineage, a really hot oven.
But you don’t need to read too deep, or too far past the pizza’s name—overall this is an oily, pungent affront to subtlety and fresh breath. But garlic, they say—-and what are we but the collection of what they’s we believe?—is a natural antimicrobial agent. And we’re all six feet apart anyways. Actually, after four slices, I’m wondering if Fauci and the lot of health-advising acronyms are really right: is six enough?
Tenuta’s Italian Restaurant 2995 S. Clement Ave. 414-431-1014 tenutasitalian.com
A recent takeout phone call to Tenuta’s, where I ordered my usual—Diavola, no pineapple—was met with this:
“You can’t do that, the pineapple makes the diavola.”
“Oh. I, uh, disagree.”
“You know what, let’s not do this right now.”
Tenuta’s is that kind of place. The shaded Clement Ave brick corner spot of pasta and pizza and cozy classiness and classy coziness is the type of place Tony might take a goomah one night and Carmela the next. Tenuta’s To Go continues the tradition from a Howard Avenue counter-only outpost, more conducive to our house-car-back-to-bottle-of-sanitizer cycle of now. But from either there is a standard gamut of specials and absurd glut of crust offerings: thin, virgin, deep, stuffed, some house pies come in triangles, some in imperfect squares. It’s like one of those Strengths Finder personality tests of endless combinations new employers make you take to find out precisely which type of pot-stirrer you will become. I always default to a pepperoni and giardiniera and cream cheese thin, a square-cut beaut, indicating the recessive gassy guy-from-Chicago trait. Balanced, zesty, spicy, creamy, it is everything I hope for on the precious, too few pizza nights of existence. But there are similar satisfaction points up and down the board: the basil-y freshness of a margherita, an olive oil sauce holding ham and pepperoni and garlic on the house special, a mis-order even found me enjoying the pleasant carb overload of a “virgin” crust, redolent of pan pizza or something from Detroit. You’d think they might specialize, defer somehow to the simpler ways of the old country. It’s almost too much, like life—the options, the anxieties, the distractions, the food narcotics necessary for real world-dimming, dulling. But you settle in, eventually, you know your order, come to know yourself and the shape of your DIY haircut-framed mug in the mirror, the spirit within said order. And, soon, with time and gut-work, then you know the voice on the other end of the line, and, even in quarantine, the gravy of a Sunday gathering can be part and parcel and pepperoni with a little good natured jabbing, some convivial ball-busting that hides, that hints at, care and love.
Fixture Pizza Pub 623 S. 2nd Street 414-736-8709 fixturepizza.com
Even if you believe, rightly, that there are no guilty pleasures in life, there can still often be times of feeling like you are cheating a bit, calorically. Like, say, when enjoying Taco Bell sober, or scarfing Totino’s pizza rolls well into your 30s, or driving through a Wendy’s and eating in your car, by yourself, removed from any identifiable mealtime, just doing it because dammit and because you can.
Sometimes you might know that notion, back behind the base lizard brain, of just feeling bad about existing as a stereotypical fat American. Ordering cream cheese—so rich, so creamy—-atop a well-made pizza feels this way, and yet, the “Great Lakes Distillery”—extra sauce, pepperoni, cream cheese wedges—keeps calling me back. Or at least keeps picking up when I call.
And there they are: creamy black-speckled corpuscles of gooey cheese comfort, squishing softly, almost a bit curdy, marshmallow-y, stretching, existing in that perfect cheese nirvana state of half-melt. They are model contrasts to the salty oven char on the liberal toss of near-burnt pepperoni. Beneath a vibrant, herbaceous marinara mixes with well-ratioed mozz, the kind of top where you can’t fully tell if the sauce or cheese were put on first, as they gel together, taking turns, like pass-first teammates that make deep championship runs, that reign supreme on a top-five pizza list. The crust seemingly has an application of anti-flop finish, good hold that is toothy and strong without getting in the way.
So it’s a bit Chicago, after all, and also a bit that they just seem to use higher quality ingredients than so many old school joints, the places phoning it in, doing it the way it’s always been done, forgetting what we all too prominently remember now: that tomorrow is no guarantee. But they are also big on the homemade hot honey siding offer, a move straight out of Greenpoint, or whatever is the new Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Honey should have no place on pizza. Or so I think, for ⅞’s of every first piece. But, actually, wait another bite—sure it does. Let’s all not think about it right now. It is honey, it has creeping zing finish, and that different flavor profile quality that makes life and another endless day of dread, a day no different than yesterday, worth it. So, for now, anyways, let’s dip our crusts bits endlessly until we’re beyond stuffed.
When they throw open the French takeout windows, even despite the masks, despite the fact my paranoia makes me insist on paying ahead of time over the phone to limit contact, despite the fact that this makes me need to call back and get their Venmo so I can send more money to fix my non-existent tip, Fixture’s pickup window really has been a lifeline of sorts since mid-March. Whether it’s the pizza or the wings or the chicken parm sandwich, it’s a satisfying reminder that there is some delicious humanity still pulsing on quiet 2nd Street. On all of our graveyard-quiet streets.
And next week, maybe, for sure, pizza delivery, like normal, can return to our house. “Be brave,” all the books I read to my daughter seem to teach, implicitly or otherwise, they echo back at me in the sound of my own voice. And one day we will. Or else, we won’t. And maybe, years from now, when she’s old enough to grown-up talk and have thoughts and observations and real life queries, when she’s old enough for these loathsome days to be the old days, she’ll ask why we always have to go pick up the pizza. And I’ll just gaze distantly out the window like grandma might have, had I wondered, or like a character in a Tom Waits or John Prine song.
Or, better, she won’t ask, will just chalk it up to the personality scars of an old, damaged man, and then we’ll be able to focus only on the pizza.
Editor's Note: This is part three of an essay by Shepherd food writer Todd Lazarski. Read part one here, part two here, part four here and part five here.
