A Pizza by any Other Name

by J.G. Fabiano

The other night, however, I was with four other couples and we were out on the town. Which in our age bracket meant we had planned to see a movie. But, before the movie, we decided to visit a local pizza parlor with a cutsie name suggesting that anything but pizza is served there. Before we arrived, we didn't have to talk about what type of pizza we wanted, because I thought it was supposed to be a simple decision.

Was I ever wrong. Upon entering the restaurant, I was astounded to see a menu which was bigger than the side of my house. I just stared at it in dis-belief. The counter attendant gave me a look of sympathy because she must have thought there was something seriously wrong with me.

The selection included pizzas representing every nationality known to the modern world. Even some of the new ones that I have yet to discover. It even had a reuben pizza. My friends were smart, because they ordered the normal type of pizza. But, being curious and perpetually foolish, I decided to read the entire menu which took far too long and gave me a stiff neck.

I ordered the reuben because, being an 0ld New York boy, I favor the salty greased flavor of pure cholesterol and fat. But, then the attendant confused me further by asking what type of crust I would prefer. There are types? I decided on the dark crust and waited patiently for the pizza to be completed. My friends noticed my confused state and asked me to join them in the 1990's. I told them I did not want to.

The pizzas were delivered on what looked like silver candelabras with a plate attached to their tops. Whatever happened to flat cardboard discs which had the capacity to not only simplify the meal but also soak up the extra always wanted grease. The grease that you would sneak you finger over before you left.

When I asked my friends what their pizzas were, they told me that they ordered the low-fat pepperoni pizza. Low fat pepperoni? How is that possible? My wife then gave me her, "Boy are you dumb look", and quietly told me that the pepperoni was make of turkey meat.

My pizza was delivered last. It really looked like a flattened reuben sandwich with its darkened crust and sauerkraut mixed with corned beef and Swiss cheese. I kiddingly asked the waiter if my pizza was also dietetic. He just smiled and stated that if I decided to donate any of my organs, I should exclude my heart. I took that as a negative answer. By the way, after my confusion was over and I finally got down to eating my pizza, it was great! Who says modern life can't taste good?

My awakening continued. A week later, my wife and I visited a new pizza parlor in the area with a genuine Italian name. As I was perusing the menu I observed that their was not one item on the menu that I could understand. Some of the selections were as follows:

SPANIKOPITA: I will never know how to pronounce this item although I believe it is Greek. This pizza included fresh spinach, mushrooms, and sausage with ricotta, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheese. No tomatoes. How can one even perceive a pizza with no tomatoes?

ABBRUZZE: Abbruzze sausage, ( I have absolutely no concept of how this differs from other sausage), broccoli, caramelized onions with ricotta and asiago cheeses. Latin would have been easier to understand.

LIGURIAN: Pesto, shrimp, sliced tomatoes, asparagus with ricotta and asiago cheeses. I wonder if the cheeses were produced in Asia??

My wife immediately caught my totally lost expression and told me to turn the menu over because there were more traditional selections on the back. She then proceeded to order the SPANIKOPITA and I ordered the "traditional" pepperoni and sausage, I, of course, demanded the American sausage.

My last bout of confusion occurred when the waitress asked if I wanted a red or white sauce? I was still in my confused state, so my wife asked the waitress to feel sorry for me and simply give me the regular sauce. Like my experience at the restaurant with the cute name, the pizza at the Italian-sounding place was exceptional. My wife let me taste her pizza and I must admit it was also good.

Our lives are changing in many ways these days as my recent experience with pizza shows. But that experience taught me an important lesson. Sometimes chance can taste pretty good once you get over the initial shock.

Last weekend my wife asked if I wanted to join some of our friends at the new Chinese restaurant in town. I never answered her. I can only stand one new experience at a time.

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Last Updated: August 11, 1996