Friday, February 27, 2009

From the pizza mailbag

I received the following email yesterday and with the writer's permission, I am reprinting it here today. I should probably give full disclosure that this letter comes from one of my oldest and dearest friends.

Subject: Something of a serious nature.

Dearest Meghann,

I cannot believe that I am going to divulge this bit of information to you. I am at the same time happy and full to the brim with shame. It's concerning something very serious and, as I know it to be, very dear to you.

It's about pizza.

I love pizza. Perhaps not as much as some, but I do love it. For the past 8 years I've been in a city devoid of good pizza. We have our chains, like Italian Pie and Reginelli's, which both make decent "specialty" pizzas. Nothing, however, that compares with the good kind of pizza you would find in the northeast. And then there are ... the other chains. Dominos. Pizza Hut. The "sellouts" of the pizza industry. Commercial. Mass produced.

But I have to confess to you, my dear friend, and I hope you understand and do not judge me too harshly. Please know that Dominos is the only pizza place that will deliver to my home, sadly located in one of the more crime ridden neighborhoods of New Orleans. After a night of indulging in the Mardi Gras celebrations, I found myself craving the delicious combination of dough and cheese. I caved.

However, if I was going to order one of these pizzas it would be something different. Something unique. A commercial came on showing the Cali Chicken Bacon Ranch from the American Legends line of pizzas. I chose the "ultimate deep dish" cheesy crust.

Meghann, I would be lying if I were to say this was not one of the best pizzas I have ever eaten in this city. Perhaps my palette has been tainted by substandard pies, but this combination of chicken, bacon, what I imagine was ranch dressing, and a surprisingly perfectly cooked crust was delectible. My mouth: it waters right now at the thought, although my mind recoils in terror.

The pizza situation in New Orleans is very bad, Meghann. Surrounded by Sicilians who do not make Sicilian pies. Oh, how I long to hold a slice needing two hands to be properly folded just so. The straw has broken the back of this proverbial camel: a good-natured and solid-minded individual from the northeast found comfort and solace in a pizza from Dominos. Weeping and mourning are not strong enough to properly react to this horror.

I am surrounded by madness, my friend. Absolute madness.

So please, keep on blogging of your pizza adventures. We poor souls who find ourselves in these locations devoid of the pies of which we longingly reminisce rely on your words as a message of hope. Perhaps one day others like me will not have to travel over a thousand miles for good pizza. But until that day comes, I'll enjoy each and every one of your posts.

I have the honor to remain your most hungry and obedient reader,

Check out Anthony's blogs, The Museum Project and The Daily Composer. When he's not longing for good pizza, Ant spends his time being an incredible musician, writer, and friend.

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