(Originally
published 3/7/16)
He was
oozing optimism when he first opened his pizza place’s doors. His little
restaurant was poised and ready for what was certain to be a mad dash of
salivating clientele. Initially, the shop was staffed like a bustling Midtown
Manhattan pizzeria—its multiple employees festooned in matching logo-emblazoned
red baseball caps and staff shirts. The upbeat new owner, who had succeeded an
unsuccessful pizza peddler, who in turn had assumed the reins from still
another failed pizza guy, had—it seemed—all his bases covered. This latest
entrepreneurial endeavor was sure to prove—despite its cursed location—that a
third time is a charm.
Long a
pizza devotee and forever a Bronx denizen, the shortest distance from point A
(home) to point B (a decent New York slice of pizza) mattered to me. Therefore,
I would throw myself at the mercy of the
new kid on the block and hope
for the best. I was perfectly willing to tolerate all growing pains, including
extraordinarily green employees, who did not, in the slightest, strive to be
otherwise. So, I was not bothered when the two slices, plus a small fountain
drink—the $5.00
lunch special—was not awarded me because I declined the
free drink. (I did not want to carry it home.) The clueless staff charged me
$5.50, the individual cost of two slices, because I passed on the drink! And
then there was the improperly wrapped pizza conundrum, where exceptionally oily
slices saturated takeout bags beyond their capacity to function. On more than
one occasion during this establishment’s fledgling days, my bag split open
before I arrived home, splattering my clothes with mozzarella, tomato sauce,
and scorching hot, orangey grease. I was nonetheless hopeful things would
improve once the
gang that couldn’t shoot straight got the hang of it. I
would thus ignore the countless pizza slices that lost their tips when plucked
out of the oven and when yanked out of the takeout bag. Call me naïve, but I
was convinced the pizza man would soon appreciate that his pizza pies were
usually too thin, often too crisp, and sometimes a deadly combination of both.
I had been served pizza slices with burnt bottoms before in my fast-food
culinary travels, but never this degree of burnt offerings.
This pizza
shop in the Northwest Bronx began with both high hopes and a full showcase of
every conceivable specialty pizza. Quickly, though, a conspicuous dearth of
sales cut the pizza selections on display to a haphazard, mangy medley of
slices. A portent of things to come occurred when the restaurant’s top pizza
oven died and was not repaired for months. It was painful to behold the
well-intentioned, formerly optimistic owner preparing his pizza pies in an oven
that was practically on the floor.
God knows the man tried. He inundated
the surrounding neighborhood with fliers on several occasions. In fact, one of
them heralded that the place would be open for breakfast. But—go figure—he
never opened for breakfast. It would have been the opportunity of a
lifetime—and a first for me—to sample “Mash Potato” on a roll to start my day.
When all
was said and done, the pizza served was rather good—above average, in my opinion—even
if the slice size and its mass fluctuated from one day to the next. My last
takeout purchase of a couple of slices—with pepperoni on them—was weightless.
It was as if I had bought them on the moon.
Unquestionably,
there was a consistency issue. You could get the freshest, tastiest slice one
day and a soggy muddle the next. Refrigerated pizza from the prior day is a
definite no-no in this business. Pizza visuals matter! The place’s showcase was
too often unsightly—empty with just a few petrified-looking options.
Nevertheless, I genuinely liked the proprietor and hoped he would eventually turn
water to wine. He never did. His almost two years of misadventures seemed like
an eternity to me, a loyal customer. I can only imagine what it seemed like to
him. And if this pizza man tries his luck someplace else—which is very
possible—I pray his pizza slice tips stay put and if he advertises “open for
breakfast” he does, in fact, open for breakfast!
(Photos from
the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
