A SLICE OF HOT CHEESE

A rabbinic friend has strong feelings about pizza, in which he echoes Jon Stewart. He also mentions Detroit Pizza, and has totally avoided California pizza, which we don't eat here in San Francisco unless we're suburbanites or from the Midwest. Which real people aren't. Pizza is a great and universal good. A sign of civilization.

It is probably not coincidental that there are pizza joints all around Chinatown. Sometimes a man needs a break from steamed pork patty with salt fish or bittermelon and fatty chunks. Pizza, of course, goes great with rice.

Real pizza NEVER comes with ranch dressing. There might be a bottle of Sriracha on the counter, which is our equivalent of ranch dressing.
And far better than.

Shan't mention pineapple here.
That's a secret perversion.
Kind of Oaklandish.

Pizza is chiz.

The best pizza is made in joints owned by Palestinians who employ Mexicans. You buy it late at night after you've sent your out-of-town relatives back to their hotel and can be fully human again. E-commerce yuppies will have a donut instead. Proof that they aren't human.


Pizza is also the breakfast food of choice, and the reason why some of us go jogging at the crack of dawn; it's guilt over that left-over slice we bunged into the oven to reheat just after getting up to pee when it was still dark outside. We woke up the neighbors with our joy.

There's always left-over pizza. No civilized person ever orders "just enough".
You never know when the frat boys might come over.
Gotta be prepared, boyscout.



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