For starters, I used to be a paid (when they felt like it) contributor for Alcoholmanac — one of the Greater Milwaukee Area’s premier bi-monthly, 20-page-long, totally shitty, free publications of which you’ve undoubtedly never heard.

Secondly, I drink constantly. And that habitual hitting of the sauce has resulted in numerous actions and decisions that run the gamut of self-destructive, dangerous, unsavoury, and altogether regrettable in nature. Of the voluminous listing of unfortunate alcohol-based choices I’ve made, I would hoist ingesting Mamma Mia’s Pizza Beer somewhere between drunk driving home after being cut off at the Cactus Club, and inducing vomit into a campfire whilst shirtless alongside three other (also shirtless) dudes as an apparent rite of passage. It’s that bad.

My first exposure to Mamma Mia’s came at the peak of inebriation, while “passing the Dutchie” (the ritualistic bonfire-adjacent sharing of random gross beer and abandoned wine coolers, popular in Northern Wisconsin) at a friend’s house. Even then, I knew something was amiss with this brew.

But I just couldn’t get past the realization that the combination of pizza and beer — two of my favorite things — would result in one terrible thing. It’s like saying blowjobs aren’t awesome on snow days; baseball is worse now that the color barrier was broken; and rock ‘n’ roll wouldn’t be as badass if played by dinosaurs. So I, burly and brave Doctor as I am, sacked up and decided to give Mamma Mia a second, more sober, try.

THE GOOD: There is alcohol in Mamma Mia Pizza Beer. Factoring that in, I suppose one could successfully achieve intoxication if they consume enough of it. That said, there are countless non-pizza beer options that can get someone just as blotto, while incurring less suffering. Of them: Generic mouthwash, chewing gum, “Non-Alcoholic” beer, the urine of a really drunk person, gasoline. Even Mike’s Hard Lemonade is a tie. 

THE BAD: It tastes nothing like pizza. Even the worst pizza I can conjure in my annuals of pizza-scarfing apriori does little to resemble this. It’s almost as if those asshats at Mamma Mia came to the (completely false) conclusion that putting basil into something magically transformed it into pizza. It doesn’t. Remember those Doritos that were “flavored like” pizza? They have nothing to do with Mamma Mia Pizza beer, but those were super shitty too. 

Obviously, beer aficionado websites are raving about this swill. Why wouldn’t they? It’s nary a surprise to see that a guild of white, yuppie, beer-snob fatfucks (who appoint themselves to be experts) love something that 103 percent of the galaxy either hates or has never heard of.

“But aren’t you guys just doing the same thing with pizza?” No! We’re WAY different, imaginary reader. Most of us aren’t fat. So, eat shit. Or if you prefer a beverage instead, drink Mamma Mia Pizza Beer.

TRY: An expired can of Mountain Creek + a disgusting amount of basil. You’ll save $2.50.

RATING: The world’s worst “Yo’ Mamma” joke is apparently a microbrew.

I used to play “Sink the Ship” on a biweekly basis when I was a junior in college. It is astounding, scary, and whimsical, the damage we have the liberty to inflict on our livers without consequence of severe hangover, when we are 20 years old.

Before Doc Za contributor T. Mario ever adopted his alias, we went to college together. Shortly after he came of drinking age, he arranged a tag-team case race at his house in which members of the college newspaper staff (Jimbo Slice included) paired up and competed against each other. My partner and I got off to a strong start but wavered after an hour or so. We didn’t end up winning the contest. But afterward, I was drunk enough to (accidentally) gulp a shot of 409 cleaning spray. I have long debated which is more puzzling: 1.) Why someone would fill a shot glass at a party with a liquid that, to the inebriated eye, could pass for a cherry bomb, or 2.) why I decided it was prudent to send the mystery shot down the hatch in the first place. Thankfully, I didn’t need to have my stomach pumped at the hospital. 20 minutes later my gag reflex, in tandem with a rejective stomach and a recoiling esophagus, evacuated all the nefarious chemicals in my system with a raging deluge of vomit. After being told that I had just swallowed 409 spray, I promptly walked two blocks to the editor’s house and upchucked in his bathroom. It is testament to my respect for T. Mario that I had the discipline not to throw up in his toilet.

All this is to say that I have partied, for good or ill. But long before the accounts of booze-induced debauchery that I have just described, my first memories of parties prominently showcased pizza. In first grade, for example, the only type of party that could make my pink crayon tingle was one of the pizza variety. I could not say the two words, “Pizza Party!” without exclaiming them as I pumped my fist with salivating anticipation.

This brings us to yet another reason why pizza is the greatest food on the planet, and the topic of this essay, as well. Because pizza parties mark the genesis of our remembered party experiences, it is the catalyst for all the rowdy and wanton half-barrel bashes I was a part of in college. If you trace the dominoes of party antics from gulping a shot of 409 spray all the way back to the origin, the instigating domino was inhaling a triple-decker of Shakey’s pepperoni pizza because my friend Al dared me to do it.

Now, before I progress any further, it’s important to dismiss cake as the REAL catalyst of our partying instincts. Although it’s true that, mostly because it’s easier to chew, we are fed cake by our parents for our birthday parties before we mature to the pizza party stage. The reasons why I’m not writing this essay about cake are as follows.

First, we can rarely remember the birthdays before our teeth became firm and sharp enough to eat pizza. The cake-boasting birthdays of toddler-hood are not a part of our conscious memory. Sure, we recall eating cake at parties in grade school, but not until AFTER we scarfed down pizza for our main course. The relationship of pizza to cake has long been as paradoxical as, say, a concert in 1975 that featured Led Zeppelin opening up for the Guess Who. In spite of the order in which they are experienced, no one is dumb enough to debate who the real headliner is.

Secondly, cake parties were about bonding with our parents, spending memorable time with them, offering them jovial moments for the family photo album. The drive behind a pizza party in grade school, however, was to distance yourself from your parents, a trend that was followed vociferously in high school, and with reduced intensity, college and thereafter. Pizza parties prompted our desire to carouse with friends rather than our parents in social gatherings. At pizza parties, our parents were embarrassing yet essential appendages responsible for providing us presents and quarters to plug into ticket-dispensing games like ski ball and Whack-a-mole, not to mention four-player arcade masterpieces such as “The Simpsons” and “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

Finally, at age 27, as a Wisconsinite with a generational penchant for brewed ale, beer has become for me an intrinsic component of a party. The tastes of beer and cake are incompatible. When the two are combined, masochistically, the beer seems too bitter, while the cake tastes too sweet. But beer mingles exquisitely with greasy and salty food like pizza. The absence of beer at a “party” has an awfully enervating effect on the event. More likely than a party, if they’re not serving beer at the gathering, you’re at a PTA meeting. Or worse, a Christian Rock concert. Cake doesn’t follow through on the trajectory of the evolution of the party in its most authentic state.

Fuck cake. You’re reading this because we love pizza.

The problem with the third dismissal of cake that I cited, that no beer = lame party, is that one could argue it makes me seem like a drunkard elitist, that I’ve been corrupted by intoxicants. Maybe it’s just that I have a chemical predilection for pizza and beer and the parties that accompany them both.

Pizza is not by definition an intoxicant, but in a way, it’s the first gateway drug we experience. Despite its wholesome reputation, the first little stumble on the slippery slope of partying is the pizza party. We’re encouraged to consume not in moderation but in excess. If you scarf down five slices while your friend is still gnawing tentatively on his second, you become cooler than your friend. We learn that gluttony gives us reason to boast. Just as we brag about crushing six New Castles and three Irish car-bombs before sundown, when we are young we puff our chest out and solicit high-fives from our buddies for devouring four pizza slices in less than ten minutes.

When I think back to the pizza party thrown to celebrate my 12^th birthday party, held at Shakey’s restaurant and buffet, it comes as no surprise that three-quarters of my buddies in attendance began indulging in booze and marijuana the next year, when we entered junior high school. I was not among the 13-year-old drug-dabblers. Back then I lacked audacity and recklessness; I was sheepish and feared upsetting my parents. I did not advance on the path of party decadence until my senior year of high school. Consequently, I was mocked and then promptly dismissed from that core group of friends.

From age five until twelve, I derided any kid my age who wanted nothing to do with pizza parties. These kids were fun-hating freaks to me, dour and emotionless bores whose overbearing parents forbade video games, soft drinks, and greasy foods. But at age 13, when puberty hit, when popularity became a cutthroat proving ground, from the perspectives of my former friends, I had become like those excessively protected geeks who shunned pizza parties. I had been left behind because I didn’t advance on the path of party decadence.

And it’s not that my rebellious ex-friends outgrew the appeal offered by pizza parties; they just preferred—no, demanded–to rip a joint of dirt weed and/ or pound a couple shots from an absent parent’s liquor cabinet before riding their bikes to Shakey’s buffet to gorge on pizza and get their stoned minds blown playing “Mortal Kombat II.” Pizza still delivered satisfaction…but it was no longer enough to quell their partying impulses. They needed more. More risk, more excitement, a more substantial buzz. It was no longer cool to merely boast about one’s pizza intake; the stakes were raised the day the snarky hellions discovered sprouts of hair on their balls.

I can no longer get by merely on pizza parties, as I could when I was 13. Nowadays I prefer to wash down slices of ‘za with hearty sips of Miller Lite as opposed to Pepsi, and 25% of the time I consume ‘za, it’s while I’m stoned on the reefer. It’s inevitable for the vast majority of adults to periodically seek intoxication, and I wonder if those years I spent shunning drugs represented not a noble battle for sobriety amidst temptation but rather a protracted case of arrested development. I was already hooked on partying; those exuberant birthday bashes at Shakey’s provided proof of that. It just took me longer to ascend to the next level of fun-loving decadence.

Sometimes I think my insights tend to tarnish everything. If that’s the case, then I’m grateful to be wrong now and then. Regardless, the next time I’m invited to a pizza party for children –and this is a rare occasion because I generally dislike spending time with rowdy kids—I will know of the dark undertones lurking beneath the surface of an ostensibly innocent and joyful festivity. I will envision all the youngsters as burnout adolescents, sneering impishly by the band-saw as they carve a rudimentary bong out of oak in shop class. I will envision beer in place of the cola in their cups as they chug with reckless thirst to alleviate their tongue burns. In place of their arcade tokens will be quarters, which will one day inevitably get bounced off the hard surface of the table into a foamy glass of Milwaukee’s Best. My imagination will distort and subvert the seemingly wholesome event; everything will be different, transformed.

Except for the pizza. It will remain constant. Pizza is not by definition a mind-altering substance, but it alters our mind’s perception of how to party: with parent-leery friends, in a calamitous setting, with insatiable greed that obliges us to boast.

The party started with pizza; we just didn’t realize it.

The weeks that followed were agonizing — like waiting to open a potato gun-shaped Christmas present from that awesome uncle you have who works with PVC pipe at his job (potato farmer is also an applicable occupation for this analogy). But somehow, much in thanks to fantasy baseball, Internet pornography and drinking to the point of blackout, I managed to stave off an impatience-based hari kari and live to see the beautiful day that Via Downer opened for business.

Those familiar with Transfer will be glad to know that, like the sister pizzeria, Via Downer also uses a wood fire oven, prides itself on using primarily locally-grown organic ingredients, features all 23 of Transfer’s pizzas and is fucking awesome.

THE GOOD: In addition to the above, Via itself is a gorgeous, newly-renovated restaurant in a quiet and underrated neighborhood. In terms of interior, think of a larger Transfer meets Comet (minus the thousands of people waiting to be seated). 

Speaking for the food, where do I begin? My pizza, the “Da Vinci” was a fluffy 12-inch diameter slice of heaven… the Muslim heaven with all the hot snatch. A blend of juicy organic tomatoes, tangy red sauce, the welcomed domination of pesto all sitting atop a warm bed of both feta and asiago cheese — sweet baby Christ, this was a pizza to which one could set his or her watch. I swear on Paul Newman’s grave that if this pizza had a vagina and low enough self esteem to let me, I’d fuck it.

THE BAD: It’s hard to take such a delectable pizza to task, but I have to say that the Da Vinci Ronnie and I had at Transfer months earlier was better. For one, it was bigger, more rigid in the center and had more tomatoes and feta per bite. I chalk some of that up to Via being scantly a fortnight in age, but being aware that it gets better left me feeling a bit disappointed.

Also, the servers, host and manager all stopped to ask me how my pizza was. Even worse, they all timed the question perfectly to when I had just taken a huge bite. I was faced with either mumbling, “hfhutu_mkdlsnn6@lx73nhg76n” with a mouthful of pizza and nodding happily or simply giving a thumbs up. I did both these things. I felt like an asshole. Besides, it should’ve been obvious I loved the fucker by how hard I was going Wolfenstein on the thing.

Lastly, Via’s beer selection is far from impressive and it is fairly expensive. Uhhh… $3.50 for a High Life. Cut-it-out!

TRY: Personally, I can only vouch for the Da Vinci, but the Thai Chicken is on my short list for one to try on my next visit. Overall, I’m sure anything they have is capable of engorging your private parts in a gender appropriate way. Just make sure to get pizza. Otherwise it’s like going to Greece to play mini golf or South Dakota to have an abortion. It just doesn’t make sense.

RATING: More like Via UPPER! (pats self on back).

Rumor (Willis) has it that somewhere along the line, the DeMarinis family was split by a dispute powerful enough to cause the DeMarinis sons — Dom and Phil — to branch out and open their own DeMarinis pizza parlor not but two blocks away from MaMa DeMarinis’. I like to think it was all Jenga-related.

Though family feuds are never a good thing, especially when talking about the TV game show Family Feud, we thought it only fair to give both DeMarinis a try to see if one family’s heart-wrenching rift delivered us the sweet fruits of another bomb-ass Bay View pizza joint. Spoiler: It did.

If you were to give me a slice of both MaMa DeMarinis’ and Dom & Phil DeMarinis’ pizza, I’d first thank you for the wonderfully delicious gift by offering you a sensual massage (no fat chix!). Secondly, I’d have no fucking idea which slice came from where. Pizza-wise, both are served on rectangular baking pans; each are cut into square slices and feature fresh mushrooms; and both are good as He11! Some people are staunch advocates of Dom & Phil’s, while hating MaMa’s. Other’s are all up in MaMa’s shit and don’t like the bros.

Personally, I cast no stones in terms of dually delicious pizza served in old fashioned neighborhood settings. I like them both so much that it’s simply impossible to pick my favorite DeMarinis location. That said, I pick Dom & Phil’s.

THE GOOD: If you want in depth pizza talk, look at my MaMa Demarinis post linked above. I feel it’s nearly identical… apart from Bros DM’s ‘za having better sausage (made in house, by the way). What pushes this location over the edge into my favorite is the location. Not only is there a patio, a significantly more spacious interior and a fully stocked bar, there’s a God damn game room up in this bitch. Noyce! It’s small, but you know the old adage… “A small game room is better than a good day of golf” or something. Plus, they have Friday Fish Fry, which is always a great thing for a restaurant to have.

THE BAD: Their cheese bread kind of sucks choad. Soggy bread with lukewarm cheese. I can do that in my sleep. And I have! Additionally, the restaurant is kind of hard to find if you’re not from Bay View and you’ve never been there before. It’s nestled deep within the confines of the Bermuda Triangle of Great Lakes-adjacent pizza. 

TRY: Get a pint of Leinie’s Nut Brown. When the bartender is filling your glass, turn to a friend and say, “I heard this shit makes you nut brown” loud enough for the barkeep to overhear. Trust me, the reaction will be worth it. Oh yeah, get a sausage and mushroom pizza. Tis’ bonerrific.

RATING: An alleged familial dispute never tasted so good — not including the near-identical MaMa DeMarinis’ down the street.

"A pizza divided against itself cannot be purchased at coupon price."

It’s impossible to deny the impact pizza has on the modern world. But few realize the immense role the pizza pie played throughout history. Doctors of Za tirelessly sifted through books, unearthed and analysed hidden documents, and even did that thing from movies where you look at old newspaper headlines on microfiche really late at night when everyone else has left the library and you’re totally exhausted. Here is just one of our findings.

The year was 1861. Kansas was just admitted as the 34th, and most boring, state. The Pony Express announced its closure… via telegraph. A new joke with the punch line, “That’s what she said!” — popular among child laborers — was sweeping through America’s textile factories. And our nation was at a crossroads.

The Civil War was tearing our young nation asunder. Brother was pitted against brother; fathers shot at their sons; neighbors who previously exchanged only pleasantries and jars of toxic, lead-based top hat polish now traded cannonball volleys and charged at one another with badass gun knives (aka bayonets). Even Kentucky didn’t want to be part of America anymore. It was totally fucked up, and Abraham Lincoln knew it.

In effort to combat the… uh, combat that risked the utter collapse of America — birthplace of the monster truck — the 9-foot-tall prez drafted a letter to the generals of both the Union and Confederacy. The slightly ripped and partially burned on the edges (for effect) scroll each leader received held the calligraphy words (also for effect) along the lines of…

“Generals –

I implore you to lay down your muskets. Rest your cannons. Allow your crimson blades to, again, shine pure and pristine. Let’s crush this conflict along with some slices. It’s time for a motherfuckin’ pizza party!!!

Where: White House (if it exists yet?)
When: Saturday – 5 p.m. to ???
RSVP at: AbePr3sident16@aol.com

Be there or be angular.

So obviously both General Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee made the trip to the pizza party, figuring even if this whole territorial/slave solution thing wouldn’t work out, at least they’d get to scarf down some free ‘za and hang out with a dude who would later have a city in Nebraska named after him. 

There, the differences of the North and South did not subside, rather worsened. Grant requested Domino’s and even referenced the 5-5-5 special in effort to sway the others. Lee insisted on Papa John’s, saying that Domino’s crust was “as gross as the North’s view on octoroon voting privileges,” which pissed Grant right off. Someone said Little Ceasers, but everyone acted like they didn’t hear him. 

The two generals fought in the White House arcade with more ferocity than every Civil War battle combined. It appeared the President’s gesture towards peace had only made things worse. That was, until Lincoln (the great unifier) got between the bickering, heavily-sideburned soldiers and offered a solution — The Eman-Za-pation Proclamation. The terms of the agreement he’d drafted on a paper plate were as follows:

• 10 Pizza Hut Pizzas. Take it or GTFO and eat cornmeal biscuits or whatever people eat nowadays.
• Lee and Grant each get to choose toppings and crust variety on 5 pizzas. 
• No Hawaiian. Hawaii doesn’t exist yet and Hawaiian pizzas are fucking gross anyway.
• Only Abe gets stuffed crust. 
• Cheesy bread and (one) fruit pizza (apple strudel) will be shared.
• No double dipping cheesey bread in maranara sauce.

Even then, the generals remained uncertain to whether they could adhere to this treaty. But then, Lincoln offered to share a 24-pack of Surge, the recently-discontinued citrus soda, with his guests. Both men accepted and shook hands on the deal. As the hours passed and the pizza dwindled to but a few cold, hard slices (that William Howard Taft would later eat out of the White House ice chest in 1908) the duelling soldiers were even said to have shared a few laughs and imbibed in games of hoop and stick, old-timey bike races (the one with the big wheel in front) and a few levels of Super Mario 2.

It was pretty awesome… and one can only speculate on the significance that night had in the war’s conclusion four years later. But the evening certainly wasn’t lost on Lincoln. The following year he drafted The Emancipation Proclamation, a document that gave men of all colors and creeds the right shed their unjust chains and, instead, live freely to bitch about national pizza chains.

Proven fact.

Conversely, when you multiply the number of times I have seen the end of the rainbow by three you arrive at the number of woman who have laid naked panting beside me and proclaimed, “That was a solid C-plus.” * (And don’t go multiplying zero by three with sneering doubt because I have indeed witnessed the glorious nexus of a rainbow.) In short, my ratio of pizzas devoured to women seduced is all out of whack. Humble and neurotic confessions such as these are indicative of the kind of guy I am.

 But don’t dismiss me as a neophyte on a topic of my own design. Every time my sperm has ventured someplace as meaningful as the tip of a condom, I have treated the woman like a steaming pan of pizza that deserves a grace period of reverent appreciation and heart-pounding patience. I have subdued my urges for instant gratification and been rewarded, by pizza and women alike.

 In a perfect world—that is, by definition, a heavenly scenario in which I am perceived as perfect by Victoria’s Secret models and everything else stays exactly the same—I could gobble pizza the instant it hits the table, launching into a wild spasm of feral indulgence, too classless and indifferent to don a bib to prevent the tomato sauce from splattering on my Beastie Boys t-shirt. I could do all this at an expensive pizzeria in front of a voluptuous Victoria’s Secret model who manages a fantasy football team and owns a collection of “Trailer Park Boys” DVDs—and she wouldn’t mind in the slightest that her boyfriend acts like a debauched slob at fancy restaurants.

 “To hell with ‘em,” my compatible Victoria’s Secret model girlfriend would say about the critical naysayers in the pizzeria. “The dude I’m with is perfect in every way.”

 After pizza, as our idyllic date continues, we walk hand-in-hand a short distance back to the condo I own. My Victoria’s Secret girlfriend listens with attentive reverence as I expound on my theory that the ongoing and sordid saga of Brett Favre draws strong parallels to the Batman flick “The Dark Knight.” My Victoria’s Secret girlfriend is enthralled rather than annoyed like most people by a game I invented called “Name That Snarf.” It works this way: The singer belts out lyrics to popular songs in the voice of Snarf from “The Thundercats,” replacing every word with the skittish sidekick’s name. Here is a transcript from the game of “Name That Snarf” that two of us play on the way home.

 “?Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf. Snarf. Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf Snarf ?.”

 That is, of course, the chorus to “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles.

 At my condo we get naked and rattle the bedsprings while the Cubs game is on mute, with the Rolling Stones’ “Exile on Main Street” blasting forth from the stereo. “Gonna get my Rocks Off tonight,” I’d announce, mid-thrust. Right into the “Loving Cup.” That about sums it up. 

 Afterward, I’d demonstrate my prowess in the kitchen by cooking up a Tombstone pepperoni pizza. Once it’s ready, I’d be free to indulge like a Neanderthal once more, without fear of tongue burn. And here’s the best part: just like me, my Victoria’s Secret girlfriend dowses her ‘Za in hot sauce. Now that’s my kind of imaginary vixen.

 The problem with this elaborate scenario that so pristinely meshes my insatiable love for pizza and women is that it’s entirely implausible—DELUSIONAL, in fact. The truth is that I’m nut perfect. Hell, I just misspelled the word “not,” if you don’t believe me. Creating a game as foolish as “Name That Snarf” is a foolproof way to demonstrate your imperfections to the world and all of its readers and Victoria’s Secret models. 

 I am more likely to someday behold the end of a rainbow again than make it with a Victoria’s Secret model. I am still coping with this sobering notion.

 In reality, I am the antithesis of that feral Neanderthal who eats his pizza just as he seduces his women: Swiftly. I have to be the antithesis of that. The bookish and nerdy variety of women that are attracted to me tend to be impressed by good manners. It’s okay. To oddities like me, the most arousing word one can hyphenate before the word “Sexy” is “Librarian.” An oddity, in this case, is exemplified by an American male who does not detest reading and everyone and everything associated with it.

 Some men are impervious to the tongue burn metaphor as it applies to seducing women. These are the sort of men capable of penetrating the birth canal while I’m still bandying small talk along the lines of, “Interesting. And what does your mom do for a living?” These men, some of whom have muscles that bulge out of flesh-clinging Polo shirts, along with 2 gallons of gel greased between the thick strands of their hair, boast gaudier, more impressive pizzas-eaten to women-seduced ratios. These virile men care little for beholding the origin of a rainbow; for them witnessing a stripper launch ping-pong balls from the holiest of holes sets the gold standard for awesome sightings.

 I share the same instincts as machismo-loaded men when it comes to pizza and women. The difference is that I am not built for instant gratification as they are. When I try to express urges for instant gratification, I come across as desperate. Pizza and women alike are wont to burn me for conveying that sort of woeful desperation. I am resigned to the fact that, for me, pizza and women are not meant to be ravished instantaneously. I am comforted by the wisdom that writers are not meant to experience instant gratification. Our game is suffering with graceful patience, style, and resolve. So it is.

 I will wait for the incendiary passion of a fresh pan of pizza to cool down as I look on with tortuous anticipation, my taste-buds salivating and unquenched just as I will wait for the love of my life to spread her legs for me. This is my mantra.

 It is perhaps a dowdy concept, but I recommend behaving like a gentleman to piping hot pizzas and potential sexual partners. Be patient. Let the anticipation and reverence well up inside of you. But—and I can’t stress this enough—never, EVER wait so long that the pizza and its metaphorical counterpart get cold.
*Interestingly enough, you can’t spell “C-plus” without “C-minus.”

Besides that, landmarks like the continually steaming manhole outside Solid Gold Gentleman’s Club, the Allen Bradley clock tower and the always delicious Conjito’s serve as apt indicators of Walker’s Point presence to wide-eyed Northwoods hayseeds like myself. But in terms of Pizza Topography, Marchese’s Olive Pit is — bar none — the neighborhood’s highest point of elevation.

Since moving to to the area, people hyped the shit out of Marchese’s. It was like the Avatar of Milwaukee pizza places. Except, unlike Blue Pocahontas, I actually had remote interest in experiencing the Olive Pit (also available in 3D) first hand. Finally, after months of delay, myself, Ronnie and two of his friends paid a visit to this often-recommended Walker’s Point pizzeria. 

The restaurant seems to specialize is white and garlic sauce pizzas as well as pasta dishes. But not being total pussies, we opted for a classic “Red Sauce” pizza. Kind of being pussies though, we went with a “Doc’s Garden” veggie pizza.

THE GOOD: The thin crust pan pizza (which ran about $20) was massive. It took up most of the table and fed all four of us comfortably. Ronnie and I had to make a delectably painful second sweep just to finish it. I’ve gladly paid $5 plus tip for much less pizza in the past. Portions aside, this collection of fresh mushrooms, green peppers, onion, tomatoes and mozzarella was tasty as hell. 

They also have a fully stocked bar with a buttload of booze, domestic brew mainstays, an assortment of micro and craft beers and $2 Blatz every day. You know I had a Blatz, babies.

THE BAD: I’m a sauce-obsessed soul, so I found Marchese’s lumpy, sporadically placed, mozzarella stick marinara dip-like sauce to be a bit lacking. It was good, but I could have used a bit more. Also, the toppings (for being a veggie deluxe, of sorts) seemed a bit sparse too.

However, the portion load was evidently heavy enough on the crust to make the inside slices mega-flimsy and the outside slices almost too tough. It was a mindfreak. A riddle. You know that story with the car crash and the doctors, and it ends up that the doctor is the kid’s mom or whatever? The Doc’s Garden pizza was like the pizza version of that. Weird.

Plus, our beers took for fucking ever to get there. And it wasn’t even busy.

TRY: The large. All large pizzas are about $6 more than the mediums, and nearly twice the size. Also, Olive Pit has vegan and gluten-free options on hand too. I suppose some people might be interested in the vast White and Garlic sauce pizza offerings, but not me. I hath too much pride.

RATING: Anything but the pits.

About half our writers know him; I think Sto Cazzo briefly lived with him, and I can vaguely remember drunkenly playing Silver Strike Bowling against him the same night I got lost in downtown Milwaukee and puked immediately after trying to jump a parking meter (or something similar to a parking meter).

But he’s not just a DoZ friend. He’s also a hell of a writer. Since day one, we have linked his blog, These Things I Know, which is equal parts hilarious and insightful. And earlier this year, he self-published his first book, Reflection in the Crosswalk, a story of a 15-year-old boy’s death and the impact it has on a small town.

The former Appleton and Milwaukee resident now lives in Atlanta. He was gracious enough to write a guest review of a pizzeria in his neighborhood. It is below.

I was excited when I was asked to do an article for the Doctors of Za. I love pizza and I love judging people. Perfect. Then came the question of where to go. I was told Nancy’s Pizza was the best around, but upon further research I learned they are from Illinois. So fuck that. My roommate’s girlfriend is from here and she often frequents a place called Fellini’s. I trust her judgment on all matters relating to pizza. She is known as the “Pizza Monster,” as she mainly lives on Jack’s frozen pizzas, eating about seven pizzas, by herself, every day. So, I took her advice and checked it out.

Fellini’s Pizza (909 Ponce De Leon Ave NE, Atlanta, GA 30306) is located in a pretty heavy bar area known as “The Highlands,” meaning that I have stumbled into this place at 2:30 in the morning, inhaled a slice of pizza, and walked around trying to find someone gracious enough to give me a cigarette. I vaguely remember eating a slice of pizza about the size of a standard face. I also vaguely remember finding a computer monitor on the way home and smashing it, to find my hands wet from the rainwater/piss/bum juice filling the inside of it. Needless to say, a precedent had been set. However, daylight and Fellini’s just haven’t gone together for me. Until now.

I elected to call ahead and place a take-out order. The interior of the place is fairly standard, metal chairs and metal tables, but the patio is where the money’s at. Patio tables with umbrellas. Perfect for fighting off the bees while you try to eat. But, I was alone and didn’t want to look like a boner eating an entire pizza by myself so I retreated to my apartment where I could share the pizza with my dog and creepily stare at the girls at the pool. It’s a pretty great feeling; annihilating slice after slice and drinking alone while watching hot girls hang out with douchebag dudes. Kinda makes you want to blast The Haunted and ruin their day. But I didn’t do that. I just ate. A lot.

I chose the “White Pizza,” because I’m racist. It’s a vegetarian pizza (mozzarella cheese, fresh garlic, oregano, ricotta cheese) that I decided to nut-up by adding meatballs, because, of course, everything is better with meatballs. Sandwiches, drinks, outfits, all made better by adding meatballs.

The Good: My memory of giant slices was spot on. And I stand by the assessment of them being about the size of a standard face. The pizzas had a thin crust, but not the paper-thin kind that usually gets cut into squares. There’s still the outer crust you can grab a hold of and one-hand the slice, leaving the other hand open to do pretty much whatever you want with it.

The Bad: I know it’s my fault for getting the White Pizza so I can’t really slam Fellini’s for it, but there was no sauce. Cheese, crust, and meatballs, that’s it. It was still good, but I like having sauce dripping down my face when I bite into a slice (interpret that however you like).

Try: the single slice option. One face-sized slice is perfect for burying the beer and shame you wracked up during a night at the bars.

Rating: Overall, it was a good experience. I think the dog liked the pizza more than I did, but she’s used to eating paper and woodchips so her opinion is a little skewed. I can’t wait to throw down this twelve pack and forget I bought it, only to open the refrigerator and find the box smiling at me from the bottom shelf. Then the circle of life will be complete and I can eat the rest before climbing Pride Rock and looking down at my kingdom.

I once met with a publisher at a coffee haus on Humboldt, I went to a few shows in the neighborhood, bought an $8 pair of grey slacks at ReThreads that leave no questions in regard to the exact contours of my cock’n'balls, and that’s about it.

Apart from those three things, I’ve learned that all the crustpunkers I know live or routinely hang there, Ronnie got mugged in Riverwest a few years back and Lakefront Brewery began there. Basically, I know shit about it. And after my inaugural Riverwest meal at NYPD, something tells me I probably need not investigate it much further.

I was sent to review the rather unimaginatively-named NYPD for a local publication. There, I found a menu equally lacking in creativity. And bullet holes. Confused to whether I ordered up front or sat down and waited to have my order taken, I eventually opted to meekly approach the counter and rattle off my order: An extra large veggie pizza.

THE GOOD: In addition to its ever-present threat of danger, NYPD offers patrons pretty respectable deals all year long. Our 18-inch za — which usually ran $18 — was rang up for $14. I figure it in part to my wearing the aforementioned dickhugger pants, but I later learned it was a coupon that ultimately did the trick.

The pizza itself was huge, and the toppings were generously doled out. Fresh mushrooms lined the pie’s vast expanses, as did the black olives. And the thing was as cheesy as an Edwin McCain ballad.

THE BAD: The real problem was the pile of green pepper and tomato that converged in the middle of the pizza. It left the middle all gross and soupy. I was tempted to slap on a life vest, you know, just in case shit got too intense. Furthermore, it took about 45 minutes to get said kind of shitty pizza.

Speaking of intense, my white bread ass was slightly unnerved to see what looked to be bullet holes in the window beside our booth. I’m all for an element of risk when eating pizza, but usually that involves ordering sauerkraut on half. I’m too young and pathetic to die.

Inside the safety of the already cracked windows is a seemingly 50s-themed joint, like a much worse Bella’s Fat Cat or one of those novelty McDonald’s.

TRY: Beats me. Though the P and D in the acronym mean “Pizza” and “Delivery,” NYPD offers all sorts of menu items beyond specialty pizzas. Wings, pasta, fish, chicken, salads, a myriad of fried appetizers and more are all on hand — all for fairly cheap. If you live in Riverwest, or have a website similar to Doctors of Za (Orthopedic Surgeons of Fish Fry? Gynecologists of Gyros?), you’ll find something on NYPD’s menu to order and subsequently not be particularly impressed with.

RATING: NYPD blew.