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 »

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 »

I Didn't Eat At One Of These. Do They Actually Work?

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 »

A Sign on the Door Says "You Can't Afford This"

If you know me, and you totally probably don’t, you know that I’m not exactly the type of bro who likes fine dining. To be quite honest, the best meals of my life were eaten at a shitty coffee table while I was dressed in sweatpants with a hole in the crotch and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt that fit better when my man-boobs were two cup sizes smaller. When I go to any restaurant where fried food isn’t the predominant foodstuff and Hall and Oates isn’t featured on the in-house stereo, I stick out like a white guy in a N.W.A. band photo.

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Is Pokey giving Gumby a handy? I'd bet so.

Like the green rubbered fellow that gives the place its namesake, Gumby’s Pizza in Madison has seen better days. Which is basically like a nice way of saying it’s a shitpile, but still; when I went there recently, they had just been raided by the local Pepsi distributor who took all of their Pepsi back due to delinquent bills. The dude working there said it was because corporate didn’t pay a bill (it apparently had nothing to do with him), which is pretty gnarly to think about, since Pepsi apparently has collection people who will come and yank out soda fountains at the drop of a hat. Plus they didn’t actually have pans to serve the pizza on, so we ate ours right out of the box. They did have paper plates at least. But even the fucking stone Gumby they have in there is torn the hell up. Seriously, he looks less put together than Lil Wayne. Read more »

Unlike the rest of the Doctors of Za, who came from places with exotic names like “Milwaukee,” “La Crosse,” “Menasha”, and later ended up at UW-Oshkosh, I was actually brought up in Oshkosh’s fertile crescent of booze, boats and substandard housing, and then stayed in town to go to the university where the Doctors of Za first started our mating rituals. So when that pill-head T-Mario starts telling you how Oshkosh has only three great pizza places—Cranky Pat’s (which is just expensive frozen pizza), West End Pizza (which is named as such because you leave the end of your anus in the toilet after you eat it, and anuses flush in a westward direction) and Ratch & Debs (I lived in literal walking distance from here for 17 years and never ate it, so I guess it could be good)—I feel I’m the only doctor than can set that fool straight. Read more »

http://www.williamsburgnypizza.com/
649 GRAND STREET
BROOKLYN, NY 11211
(Manhattan Ave. & Leonard Street)

Going back to New York was exciting. Going back to Williamsburg was equally exciting. Despite seeing the most ridiculous looking kids as soon as we got onto Metropolitan I was excited to be able to eat at some of my favorite places, San Loco, Relish, Taco Chulo, and Jerry’s Pizza. Just kidding. I’d never heard of Jerry’s Pizza before.

Red Knife Lottery and I were on the hunt for pizza. My previous journey to Tony’s was a solo mission and Ashley “wanted fucking pizza.” We met up with friends Atlas Moth (who got a burger named after them at Kumas) outside of Union Pool where they were playing later that night. Nobody was familiar with the area except myself and instead of giving some sort of direction we walked around basically aimless. After a good 10 or so blocks getting out of Williamsburg and slowly making our way into Greenpoint we stumbled across a Papa Johns and made a lot of jokes. Then, another block later, we discovered Jerry’s across the street.
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I used to have a long-running argument with an ex-friend about how, while pizza as we know it may have been “created” in America, it wasn’t inaccurate to call it Italian, because it was the Italian immigrants who made it here, not those dirty potato eating Irish. But he was stupid, so he said it didn’t matter that Italians in America made it, it was only American cuisine. Apparently his definition of what makes food of a certain culture is similar to how South American countries view territory disputes (look that shit up, I don’t have time to explain that metaphor here).

Why did I bring up a fight I had with a douche I don’t even talk to any more? Well, because Pizza di Roma, one of the less reputable pizza joints on Madison’s State Street, unlike about every other pizza place in Madison save Paisan’s, is 100% about referencing Italy. I mean, they’ve got Roma in the fucking name. Plus a prerequisite to working there seems to be that you have to be Italian (or at least Mexican) and have a love of hair oil and Italian soccer team t-shirts. Which probably makes Pizza di Roma the most authentic pizza joint in all of Madison. That is if you have a logical definition of what makes for “authentic” Italian pizza. Read more »

http://www.pizzasola.com
1417 E Carson St
Pittsburgh, PA
(412) 481-3888

I’ve never been to Pittsburgh before but Chris from Red Knife Lottery spent months in the place. When I was out with them on a short tour I asked for his expert advice when looking for a pizza joint. He didn’t know. I then looked toward the locals for a hint. Brandon, a good friend and drummer from Pittsburgh hardcore band Girl Fight, highly recommended Pizza Sola. We had already been drinking at Dee’s bar which was only a few short blocks away so I gathered some friends and we headed down.
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I have no reason to love Cranky Pat’s Pizzeria – but I do.

As a college student, I was one of the Oshkosh location’s inaugural cooks. It was a fun enough college job, and I worked with a group of great people. But I was also laid off during the holidays and routinely sent home an hour into my shift to save a few bucks; I reeked of oregano after every work day; I was scheduled to cook for Town Motel prostitutes and tactless frat rejects on the weekend night shift (6 p.m. to 4 a.m.) when I could’ve otherwise been getting shitfaced or having unprotected sex with my pro-choice then-girlfriend.

I was eventually fired from my $7.00/hr job at Cranky’s a scheduling oversight, thus ending a smelly, often frustrating, but unforgettable period of my life. I wouldn’t do it again, but I’m happy I worked there both for the memories it provided and – more so – for the opportunity to regularly stuff myself on the Fox Valley’s best pizza.
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