Un piccolo miracolo

Place-based partisanship is annoying. When people extol endlessly the vast virtue of their own little corner of the world, and smugly denigrate everyone else’s, they reveal nothing but their own parochialism. Thomas Pynchon, in Vineland, had a great line about this, which of course I can’t remember, but it had to do with a couple of Manhattan girls whose sole perception of California was through “the many ways that it failed to be New York.” I’ve known similar people. I can’t claim that I’ve never been guilty of this myself, but as I’ve matured I’ve come to realize that different places are just that--not superior or inferior, just different. Every place has something unique to offer, and in failing to seek it out, we only diminish ourselves.

Unless you’re talking about Buffalo, ‘cause that place is just a dump. But seriously, folks….

Of course, it’s natural to feel a certain affinity with the place where you grew up, and its peculiar language, customs, and traditions. Not to mention its food--we’re all familiar with the phrase “comfort food”, and indeed, when we’re out in the far-flung reaches of the globe, and feeling upset or unsure, the foods particular to our home places can be a great source of comfort. When I was growing up in New Jersey, my favorite food was pizza. And as I’m fond of saying, in Jersey you can’t spit without hitting a pizza joint.

True, you can get pizza just about anywhere. But as I’ve discovered in my travels throughout this land, it’s just not the same. When I first moved to California and walked into a pizza place asking for a slice, they looked at me like I had five heads. It seems that the slice as a concept does not exist in California--nor does “real” pizza. California has its own take on pizza, and its quite enjoyable, but in terms of the pizza of my youth it just can’t compare.

It’s hard to say just what makes New York-New Jersey pizza what it is. It’s gotta be made by Italians, that much I know. If you don’t see a guido (or guidette) behind the counter, and at least one small white-haired old man with an Italian accent in the general vicinity, clear out immediately. I think it also has to do with the simplicity of the recipe--just bread, sauce, and mozzarella cheese (toppings allowed within reason, of course, but there’s a lot to be said for the classic cheese pie), and the fact that it’s cooked in a regular oven, not a deep dish or some schmancy wood-burning brick deal. It’s just simple Southern Italian peasant food, and when it’s done right, it’s really, really good.

Unfortunately no one seems to be able to do it at all west of the Mississippi, and no one seems to be able to do it right west of the Delaware. People here in the West will say, oh, you have to try such-and-such a place, they have real East Coast-style pizza. And then you go there, and...no. Just...no. I’ve tried many places, and none come close. So when someone told me that the Pizza Castle here in Albuquerque had the real thing, I was more than a bit skeptical. But the other night, as I was freaking out (just a little) over my recent birthday, I felt like I needed some Jersey comfort food, so I decided to check it out.

It’s in a crummy strip mall, which was a good sign (the best pizza joints always are). I must decry the fact that there was nothing castle-like about it, however. I mean, New Jersey had, once upon a time, the famous Tower of Pizza, which you entered through a miniature replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa (incredibly exciting when I was a kid), so I expect truth in naming. But it did have threadbare carpeting, rickety booths from whose faded cushions yellow foam protruded, a menu board with slots that you stick those little plastic letters into, and--oh yes--a pinball machine. Now you’re talking genuine pizza place ambiance, my friend. It could’ve used a jukebox, though. When I was little, our family pizza place was Luisa Pizza in South Plainfield, which was owned by a friend of my dad’s ( = free pizza). Every time we went there, I would play “Run To Me” by the Bee Gees on the jukebox. I loved that song sooooooo much. Eventually I bought a 45 of it and played it over and over, but somehow it was never quite the same as hearing it on the jukebox at Luisa while eating pizza.

Anyway, as soon as I walked into the Pizza Castle, I knew that what I’d heard was true. Smell that? Real pizza. I ordered a couple of slices to go (small disappointment: the box did not feature a mustachioed man in a chef’s hat making the Italian gesture for “Yummy!” and saying, “You’ve tried all the rest--now try the best!” But you can’t have everything) and took them home. The crust was the perfect thickness and not at all soggy, the sauce was tasty, the cheese was fresh and there was just the right amount. And the slices were so generous that I could only eat one--the other one is wrapped in foil in my freezer, waiting for the next time I need a little homestyle comfort.

Thanks, Pizza Castle. You’re a small miracle in the desert.