Something I’ve made a side comment about at a party, or as a not-really-joke when around friends and family, is that I believe Pizza is the most food. No, I haven’t made the same typo twice. I simply, truly believe that pizza, as a form of food, is the most of it. I’ve tried a few times to defend this position amongst trusted company, but given as most of these occasions are usually accompanied with inebriating substances of some kind, and that I’ve made the comment off-handedly, I’ve never quite been able to fully articulate this thought. But, I would like to attempt to do so.
So, here’s me trying.
First, I believe the most important thing we must do, is define “food.” Yes, purely from a biological perspective, food is simply something that gives us nutrition in order to be able to continue to live. But I do not believe that is simply all food is. Food is a commonality. One of several, yes. A simple, yet eternal activity that we all participate in. As a species, we do not eat in the same way that we sleep or breathe. Those things we do essentially automatically. Food is something we must work for. We put effort and decision making into acquiring and then consuming food. For sleeping, we just find a flat surface and lay down. For breathing, we just do it.
Food is something that brings us all together, in spite of how different it is across cultures and environments. In Ye Olden Times, a traveler might sail to a new island, or trek across mountains to encounter a new group of people they have never met. Clothes would be different. Customs would be strange. Language would be unintelligible. But food? It’s right there. It’s obvious. There’s simply no reality in which some European explorer first ended up in east Asia, saw rice, mustard greens, and duck in a bowl and didn’t say:
“Yeah, I’d eat that.”
We almost instinctively know what food is. Despite it being so varied across cultures. It is at times strange, perhaps even scary to try new foods. It is sometimes an adventure. Because food is something that we all do, across all cultures, most importantly, the best food is the food we share. Because sharing is culture. And therefor, food is culture.
Let me give an example.
As a child, my extended family would gather at my grandparents house in Atlanta, Georgia on occasion. The primary gathering would be Christmas. Sure, we would mostly all be there at various times and in various configurations over a span of seven to ten days. But Christmas morning, it was almost guaranteed that we would all be there. And the evening before, there would be a refrain first whispered in the background in anticipation. Then louder and louder, until is was a small roar.
“Ham, cheese, pineapple, toast.”
The morning of Christmas would come. We would all race down the long hallway in our grandparents house, past the living room where the presents would lie await to be opened, to the kitchen, and Mumma(our name for our Grandmother) would be in the kitchen. Apron on, preparing the sacred dish. It is actually quite simple.
You start with a piece of bread. Not some ordinary Wonder or Bunny bread. A nice artisanal loaf from a local baker. One you have to slice yourself. You take this slice of bread, then place 3 additional ingredients. A slice of ham, a slice of pineapple(you can use either a fresh pineapple you have shucked and sliced yourself, or slices from a can. I am actually partial to the canned slices), then a slice of cheese. The type of cheese isn’t pre-determined. You can have a slice of Swiss. A fresh Mozzarella. Or even a slice of American from a plastic wrapper. It doesn’t matter. Go wild.
Once assembled, the stack is placed in an oven on 350 Fahrenheit. Toasted until the cheese reached a slightly brown, crispy texture. When a single bubble popped, that’s when you know it is time to remove the tray of treats from the oven(That’s right. You make these in batches.). Once removed from the oven, allow them to cool for a minute or two, then slice them diagonally. Place the lot of them on a platter for public consumption.
I was, for years, always under the assumption that this was an Australian Christmas tradition. See, my family immigrated to the United States by way of Canada from Australia(mate) before I was born. I am, technically, a First Generation American. Which is pretty cool. So, I shared this little treat with my now wife on our first Christmas together. She loved it. And you will too. We now do this every year. We’ve now shared many Christmases with friends over the years as well, and shared the treat with them. It was ingrained in me that this was a tradition in our family. To have Ham Cheese Pineapple Toast on Christmas morning. And only on Christmas morning.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Anyone who could possibly be reading this from my technical Motherland knows that this is actually just a normal breakfast food. When my mother told me this a few years ago, I felt I had been betrayed. I could have had this delicious food every morning? I could just do it at any time? I had been lied to. I turned pale. I needed my chaise lounge on which to faint.
After a few minutes of collecting my thoughts I came to the realization that we simply had a small culture that we had curated. What had been(and I assume still is, I’ve never actually lived in Australia) a normal breakfast food for my family had been turned into a remembrance of life past, and now, was a special marking of Christmas for my wife, her family, and a few close friends. For us, Christmas would not be Christmas, without Ham, Cheese, Pineapple Toast. To the point that to this day, we still text each other pictures on Christmas morning of our platters. No other words. No presents. Just a picture of Ham, Cheese, Pineapple Toast.
We have made a small, contained private culture. We did it with food.
I used to be a member of my local Rotary Club. I miss it, but other obligations have managed to buffalo their way into my life, and Rotary out of it. If you do not know what Rotary is, here’s the elevator pitch:
Small groups of individuals in a local community meet once a week to discuss how they can improve that community. Our particular chapter was very concerned with providing meals, clothes, and supplies to several local underprivileged schools. It was a rewarding experience. And if you haven’t checked out a local Rotary Club, I highly suggest you do so. At the very least, it will give you some ideas on how you can better support your neighborhood or town.
(Also, Rotary has been an instrumental part of finally irradiating Polio. We’re like, really almost there, and a great deal of that is due to this organization. Also, Psy is a Rotarian. Remember Psy? Oppa Gangnam Style? He’s a cool dude.)
My Rotary Club used to meet at a local hotel. We would meet at one of the many various rooms with the origami-like pull out walls. If you’ve ever been to a business conference or wedding reception at a hotel, you know exactly the kind of room I’m talking about. Our normal room, much smaller than the wedding reception or business conference spaces, only housed about a dozen or so members every week. Rotary meetings are simple. They are about an hour long, and start with food. Our club met at 8 in the morning. So our meal consisted of slightly above average hotel breakfast buffet. You know the kind. Sausage links, overcooked bacon, and way too moist scrabbled eggs. Thankfully, our hotel provided us with Cholula hot sauce for flavor.
(An aside. Cholula is the second best off-the-shelf hot sauce. Valentina’s Black Label sauce is the best, introduced to me by my sister-in-law. Tabasco and Texas Pete can go pound sand.)
While eating, the meeting begins. We discuss club business, such as how certain projects were going and how to raise money for the chapter. Afterward, we have a guest speaker. They typically spoke for 20 to 30 minutes about their passion project or subject they were knowledgeable in. Sometimes this was a plea to get support from the club. Other times, it was just a sales pitch. This next story is about one such sales pitch.
This particular meeting we were not in our normal room. A larger corporate event pushed us out of our typical chambers and into the outdoor courtyard. It was winter. The hotel was kind enough to provide us with a pop up, enclosed tent and a heater for the space. Our speaker that week was a representative from the Triple A organization, and was espousing the virtues of their service. I will admit, my wife and I have been Triple A members for many years, and find comfort in the knowledge that we can receive roadside assistance whenever we need, even if we haven’t had to yet.
One of the many benefits of a Triple A membership is access to discounts on travel and other services. This was the focus of his presentation. When discussing what the typical traveler wants to do when visiting overseas, he mentioned that the number one thing people ask for, is the best retail. There were groans from the rest of the club. He said, if I remember correctly, “That’s right. Most people ask about two things when they want to travel. Where to shop… and where to eat.” More groans followed.
I thought, “Yeah.”
I mean, of course. Why wouldn’t you want to know the best places to eat? Why would you go anywhere and not want to know the best local spots? Especially when you’re not visiting just another region of your country? Every time I’ve visited a friend or family member somewhere outside of my city, the first time food comes up is always followed by me or another visitor asking, “What’s good around here?” I’ve done a decent bit of traveling in my 30-some odd years of(consecutive!) existence, and my favorite memories all contain the food I ate.
Meat Pies from a street vendor in Sydney. A burrito from a dive bar in Austin. Poutine from Toronto. A high end restaurant in London. An Italian restaurant on a cruise ship. And from New York City, a pizza.
Every single one of those meals was shared. My grandfather in Sydney. Burritos with my immediately family in Austin. My aunt and uncle in Toronto. My brother in London. My wife overlooking the sea. And countless friends and family in New York.
(I dare say, I have a LOT more food I want to eat. One of the main reasons I want to travel to Japan with my wife is to eat as much fucking ramen as possible. Also, did you know that the modern day version of sushi is a really recent type of cuisine? Look it up!)
Speaking of New York, this leads me to my following story. I want to discuss the best meal, and possibly the best night, I’ve ever had in my life. And if you’re with me so far, I hope you will indulge me.
My father spent the final years of his life living on Roosevelt Island, technically part of Manhattan, New York City. For those who don’t know, Roosevelt Island is a long island that sits between Manhattan Island on the West, and Queens on the East. To access the island, you have 3 options. A single bridge, a single stop on the F Train, and a Suspension Tram(I guess, technically, you could swim there or pilot a boat. But I don’t know why you’d do that. Just using Public Transport or a car is easier.). Roosevelt Island, at the time of this writing, has 2 Grocery stores, 2 schools, 4 recreational fields, a library, a phenomenal bagel joint, and around 11,600 residents. Statistically, in a city with a population of 8.419 million residents, Roosevelt Island doesn’t exist.
One year, my father invited my wife and I up for Thanksgiving. I like Thanksgiving. It’s a Top 4 Holiday for me(Christmas, Halloween, 4th of July, Thanksgiving. In that order). He had just moved into an apartment on the East side of the island. If I recall correctly, it was on the 7th floor. He got really lucky with this place. It was a 3 Bedroom(!!!) apartment with 2 full baths. But it had clearly not been touched since the late 70’s. The bed in the master bedroom was on a raised carpeted platform that took two steps to get up to, and the ceiling directly above was furnished with mirrors. Both full bathrooms were also covered, wall to wall and floor to ceiling with mirrors. Even the showers and the actual bathtubs.
Yes. This apartment was made for doing the nasty.
We arrived the morning of Thanksgiving. My father escorted us to our non-mirror-filled room. We packed away our belongings. He suggested, that before he got started on dinner, we go grab something quick to eat. If memory serves, we popped over to Manhattan on the Tram, and grabbed a hotdog. It was good. We headed back to the apartment. It was at this point my father informed us of who was going to be attending that night.
My wife and I, of course. My brother and his wife. His long-term girlfriend. An old friend of his. His friends wife. His friends daughter and son. His friends daughter and sons significant others. The son of his secretary from 2 decades prior. And several other people he knew.
There was one moment I distinctly remember. I was sitting in the living room watching the television that was also sitting on it’s own carpeted raised platform with several other people. I decided to check on my father who was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I strolled into the kitchen, and asked, “Dad, whatcha need?”
Pans sizzled with oil, and I could feel the low heat from the oven cooking the bird. Scents of spices filled the air. A small amount of sweat beaded on my fathers forehead as he dashed about the kitchen stirring pots, pulling ingredients from the cabinets, and flipping over items in pans.
“I need a glass of wine. White.” He replied.
I took the few short steps to the fridge and pulled open the door. There was literally nothing in it.
“Dad?”
“Oh yeah,” he said flipping a tea towel over his shoulder. “Fridge broke.”
“Fridge broke?!”
“Yeah.”
“Then how are you making Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Balcony.”
Confused, I walked out of the kitchen, took a U-turn around the wall, walked to the balcony door, and slide it open. There was vegetables, fruits, beer, and wine. It was New York City. He was on the 7th floor, and it was late November.
My father had eschewed purchasing a new fridge for the gifts of Mother Nature herself.
I grabbed the wine.
That night, I had one of the best meals of my life. Not because the food was fantastic (even though it was. I suppose the New York City night air is good for asparagus). But, because I was in a place with over a dozen other people, most of whom I’d not yet met, sharing drink, stories, music, games, and food. I made new friends. Rekindled old friendships. Grew closer with my brother and father. Met people that I have literally never spoken to since. Met someone whom I had known decades prior as a child that currently runs a magazine.
One of those people, I still actively dislike.
The most important aspect of the evening was not the quality of the food. Nor was it the setting. The important thing was that we were all together sharing it. Those 6 hours together, will remain as a tattoo on my soul. It was perhaps, one of the most human moments I’ve ever shared with other people. Except, for the next section of this essay.
The immediately proceeding portion of this writing is not a single story. It is an amalgamation of stories. Or rather, the amalgamation of the emotions those stories elicit. An amalgamation of the things we do as people together. Around each other. The most important activity we participate in this universe is the activity we spend together. We form bonds. We create memories together. Like that night on Roosevelt Island. Or those meals I’ve shared with family and friends. Food allows us to do that. We sit around a table and talk. Connect with each other. Food brings us closer together. And by doing so, it brings us closer to ourselves.
I am now, finally, getting to the point.
Pizza is unique in all foods. Yes, while that Thanksgiving on Roosevelt Island was the best meal of my life, it was missing something. It was missing a physical element. And that element is the literal breaking of the bread.
Pizza requires us to almost caveman-like, tear a portion of the shared dish for ourselves. We gather around our cardboard box together with friends and family. We pry it open and grab our piece of the pie. We have all stood or sat around this container and unconsciously said, “This is our food. Take what you need.” We can(but we won’t) discuss the particulars of toppings or styles. But in the end, it’s all still pizza. New York, Chicago, Detroit. It’s all still pizza. And whatever toppings you want, go ahead. It’s still pizza.
Pizza is food made to be shared. It’s meant to be eaten by people, not a person. A single dish that we all take out portion of. That we hold in our hands while we laugh. While we talk. While we contemplate. While we cry. While we bond. Pizza breaks down cultural boundaries. Pizza asks us all to physically reach into one container, and share our humanity. It contains the nutritional value we need to sustain ourselves, but also the interaction that we also need to sustain our souls.
I’ve shared pizzas with friends at parties.
I’ve shared pizzas with my family watching Star Trek: Voyager on UPN.
I’ve shared pizza with huge groups of friends playing video games at a LAN party.
I’ve shared pizza with my wife on vacation and at home when we’re just hanging out.
I’ve made, then shared, pizza with my family on vacation in a cabin in the mountains or by a lake.
I’ve shared pizza with a friend late at night with a beer or two, comforting them over a broken heart.
I’ve shared pizza in a hospital waiting room, hoping to hear good news.
I’ve shared pizza with my brother, and our wives mourning the loss of our father.
I’ve shared pizza watching sports.
I’ve shared pizza when we were too tired to cook.
I’ve shared pizza at 3am with friends when we’re just not quite sleepy enough.
I’ve shared pizza with literally every single important person in my life.
I’ve shared pizza.
I’ve shared.
Pizza, is the most food.