I like to pay out-of-season visits to places like Lake Geneva.

For some reason, things like saltwater taffy, novelty T-shirts with something pissing on something else, and the presence of water manage to bring in tourists from around Wisconsin, and a plethora of self-important fuckheads from Illinois in summer.

But in winter, the place takes on a whole new persona — like a sleeping city of sorts. Or like Sheboygan with more stuff to do and fewer sexual assaults.

With the aforementioned FIB-influx, Chicago residents — who would probably melt if ever forced to eat a thin crust pizza — have used their loud-mouth influence to bring a bunch of stuffed pizza joints to Lake Geneva. Down panderingly-named routes like “Wrigley Street”, “Curtis Enis Run” and “Honk your Horn Because the Guy Ahead of you Didn’t Run a Red Light, and You’re in a Hurry to Watch the Cubs NOT Win the World Series Again Boulevard”, you’ll see Chicago-based chains like Geno’s East, and various other purveyors of the stuffed pizza shamelessly using the word “Chicago” in their names.

When my pal Vince invited me to his hometown of Lake Geneva to meet him for some stuffed Za at Original Chicago Pizza Co., get drunk, talk about Sons of Anarchy and make fun of Corey Hart at length, I gladly accepted.
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I spend most of my time reorganizing shelves at a big box store, which is to say I spend most of my time trying to entertain my co-workers with my near perfect memory of the lyrics to 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” (my strength is the first verse), my flawless singing of the Miley Cyrus songbook and my hilarious tales of “being a writer” at a big box store. One evening recently, one of my 14 supervisors, a no-nonsense dude who I won’t name here, upon hearing my tale of writing for a pizza review site, had this to say:

“You should eat Rossi’s. It’s in Monona, and it’s the best pizza on the planet. It’s how pizza should be. You say you like Ian’s? Blegh. It’s gross compared to Rossi’s.”

I think I answered noncommittally out of fear, but holy shit, dude was on to something. There’s a giant ass sign outside of Rossi’s that calls it the best pizza on the planet too, and it’s probably the first sign that is totally true since that one I saw that asked if I was tired while driving when I totally was. Rossi’s is hands-down the best pizza I’ve had in my short time in Madison, to the point where I’m not even sure if it’s worth eating anywhere else. Which isn’t exactly the thing you want to feel when you review pizza for fun. Am I right, ladies? Read more »

Think about some of the most significant movies to ever come out of Hollywood and it becomes clear that one common thread ties them all together: The indisputable cinematic importance of pizza. Sure, everyone can pinpoint the classics like the unforgettable French bread pizza scene in Gone with the Wind, Brando’s timeless deep-dish pizza monologue at the end of On The Waterfront, and that part in Bad Lieutenant where Harvey Keitel whacks off on some chick’s car and then gets a slice. But pizza has permeated so many levels of the film industry that DoZ is setting out to finally get pizza all the credit it deserves by examining some of the most pivotal pizza scenes ever created.
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Just like every other college-educated, self-loathing white son of middle class parents who lives in Madison, I read the A.V. Club and The Onion too much. So let me break with what’s expected of me and link to an A.V. Club story in the next paragraph:

When I started considering writing a review of Rocky Rococo’s, Wisconsin’s pre-eminent corporate pizza chain a whole 36 hours ago, I ran across this Inventory running down movies in which the police detective is told he is too close to a case, and couldn’t help parallel (again, no one else parallels their lives to something they read in the Onion, and by no one, I mean everyone) that list with this review. Am I too close to Rocky’s to write a review of the Italian stereotype-furthering chain? Probably. Read more »

You think you’re beginning to figure out life, until something comes along to totally change your opinion of it. You’re certain you know what true happiness is, until you find love and become a parent. You think you’ve reached the apex of carnal satisfaction, until your lady gives you the green light to take a run at her without a dong bag. You go through life thinking you’ve regularly been eating pizza… until you eat deep dish pizza in Chicago.

At the recommendation of DoZ reader Adam, I found myself pestering my friends to bring me to a downtown Giordano’s location when I was in Chicago last weekend. Like almost everything else in Chicago, the famous pizzeria chain had a line out the ass and the occasional self-important fuckface who threatened everyone’s enjoyment of the experience. But — also like Chicago — Giordano’s Pizza also had enough great and impressive things incorporated to make it well worth the time, excess money and inevitable frustration expended in the process.
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Based on a friend’s recommendation, T. Mario and I checked out Tenuta’s Italian Restuarant recently. This Bay View establishment stood out from your standard pizza joint in a lot of ways. For one, they had a full menu of Italian dishes; I would go so far as to say that the pizza isn’t their focus. Another huge difference is the atmosphere. When you first walk in you’ll immediately notice that the lighting is much dimmer than your average restaurant. There are candles lighting every table and the lights were turned down to the point that someone with shitty night vision would be in total hell, crashing into tables and whatnot. While this would be hilarious for me to watch, I can’t imagine the poor bastard who couldn’t see would be enjoying it very much.

Not that there’s anything wrong with dim lighting. There are plenty of times when a more intimate setting would be appropriate. Like if I was having dinner with a nice lady instead of a dude friend. Anyway, T. Mar and I got a table and commenced with the romancing.
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Remember that scene in “Dances with Wolves” where Kevin Costner and a Native American man boohoo over a bunch of skinned buffalo? I saw the movie once when it was in theatres—my middle school class went as a field trip, which proves that I’m old and that field trips were super shitty in my day. But that scene stood out for a couple of reasons: First, because this kid got in trouble for whipping Sprees at the screen during it, and second, because it illustrates man’s willingness to not only kill all living things, but to also be a complete dick about it. And judging by my recent visit to Moosejaw Pizza in Wisconsin Dells, they are completely for killing and dicking animals.

Or maybe it’s the other way around and Moosejaw respects animals so much that they find a use for every piece of their carcasses.

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In Slice of Life, we outsource the za talk to our friends, notable Wisconsin residents, and anyone else we feel has an interesting perspective on the pizza pie.

Our inaugural edition finds us talking to Aaron Vold. Beyond drumming for Decibully — one of the state’s most accomplished and beloved bands — Vold is also a pizza connoisseur. When he wasn’t busy playing in support of his band’s latest record, World Travels Fast (available at pay-what-you want digital download HERE), he was gracious enough to answer a few questions for us.
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Abu’s has been treating Milwaukee to authentic Middle Eastern cuisine for more than 30 years. Since 1977, the microscopic restaurant’s delicious food has earned it countless local dining awards, and at one point mention among the country’s best Middle Eastern restaurants. As far as I can tell, Abu’s in Milwaukee is the third most notable Abu on Earth, behind that monkey from Aladdin and that prison where Americans took those creepy and disgusting pictures with prisoners.

Last summer, Abu’s ownership changed hands, and immediately updated its menu with everybody’s favorite Mid-East delicacy — weird pizza.
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Buffets are meant to increase the national obesity average, lower the overall hygienics of restaurant eating, and because of the powerful gold pole and long window company needed a market for their wares in the 1940s (look it up). And, let’s be adults here: Buffets exist because of fat people. It’s not like a svelte cross-country runner is going to find great happiness at a Golden Corral. No, it takes the kind of person who eats not until their body tells them to stop, but the kind of person who eats until their food starts coming out of their every orifice in petroleum jelly-consistency reams of sweat.

To my (somewhat) dismay, I am the target market for buffets. Tell me there’s a place where I can get bacon, French toast, steak, packets of jam, an omelet, mashed potatoes, more bacon, pizza, and food I can’t readily identify on a single plate, and I’ll be there, early grave be damned. Read more »