I make a-da Italians feel-a bad about dere heritage.

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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As far as I’m concerned, there are only two reasons people go to The Cheesecake Factory. 1. They’re going to prom. 2. They want to get their genitals played with. Since I haven’t done either of those things in months, I consider it odd that I recently found myself dining at the Milwaukee location of this famed franchise. But there I was, in the immense chain eatery in all its implied better-than-TGI Friday’s decadence.

Despite the rarefied air of, like, every girl’s favorite restaurant, I didn’t relent to the pressure of trying some fancy ass almond-crusted- or lemon pepper-type dish — or even the cheesecake North America has been slinging jizz over since 1978. Single-minded as I am, I was there to eat up some motherfucking pizza.
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I probably visited the Appleton branch of the Boston’s Gourmet Pizza chain more than any other pizza place for the few years that they were open. No one could ever understand it; almost all of my friends and family had different experiences with absolutely terrible customer service, yet I continued to dine there. It’s amazing what I’m willing to overlook for some tasty slices.

The magic was all in their sauce. If they told me it was made out of leprechauns and cocaine, I’d probably have said ‘Yeah, that makes sense.’ I continued coming back even after the time that my companion and I ate almost an entire pizza without plates (normally they give you these shortly after you order). For whatever reason, they just couldn’t find and keep competent waitstaff. But goddamn did they make some awesome pizza. Read more »