Yep, I ate here.

It is one of the great ironies of Wisconsin pizza patronage that things that are taken as pizza law elsewhere–that crust should never be able to compared to any cracker (except Carson Daly), that sauce should not be the consistency of the stuff on spaghetti, that pizza should be fluffy yet crispy, not taste like it was microwaved and be made with the best ingredients–are treated as optional here. Which explains how I found myself in a basement restaurant in Minneapolis’ warehouse district at noon on Easter Sunday, eating in a place that can be easily described as “stainless-steel-friendly,” surprised as shit that the pizza was melting my face off for its awesomeness.

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We are not these dudes.

Pizza sits alone in an unfuckwithable food category. Like a can cozey that says “A bad day of golfing is still better than a good day at work,” most people agree that even shitty pizza is still pretty good. So what happens when you take the power of pizza creation into your own feeble hands in service of trying to gross out your bro? Pizza vs. Pizza, in which two esteemed constables of pizza mastication, Dr. Tenderoni and Dr. Benji Mane, your two Madison correspondents, challenge each other to eat totes gross slices of the other’s creation at Roman Candle. Read more »

Not Jeff and/or Jim at all.

Eau Claire, Wisconsin is famous for so many things, you guys. Like…. Well, that dude from Bon Iver is from there. I heard he’s a cool guy. Also, Eau Claire is the last place to take a decent shit between there and Wausau or Madison. Seriously, just try taking a shit in Thorpe. Good luck, you poor unfortunate soul. Your anus will never forget the Thorpedo. Eau Claire’s fame is basically unfuckwithable, I’m saying.

At any rate, I recently found myself sequestered in the environs of Eau Claire’s bosom, visiting my parents (who don’t live there), my cousin (who doesn’t either), and my aunt and uncle (who do). And because I wanted to “see” what Eau Claire “had to offer” in terms of “pizza,” my cousin and I ventured to the “hip” part of Eau Claire (Waters Street, y’all) to eat at a pizza place called Jeff & Jim’s. I was informed by my cousin that Jeff and Jim were not gay lovers (at least as far as he knew), and they had a falling out at some point, which led Jim to change his name to Jimbo and move to Chippewa Falls and open his own pizza place. It’s like Eau Claire’s civil war or something. Read more »

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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