Secret Love Affair

Scandal.
Teacher scandal.
Affair.
Long distance lovers!
The horror!!

It's not what you think.

We have a love affair, not just with each other, but also with television. It's not popular for a teacher to say about herself, but it's true. Particularly regarding food on television.

And also true: we are suckers for advertising. I once went to Taco Bell for a "crunch wrap supreme" because it looked "so good" on tv.

But generally, our weekend television revolves around The Phantom Gourmet--a wonderful program which highlights the Boston area restaurants. We sip our weekend morning coffee and listen to descriptions of interesting and delicious food, all available locally. Another favorite of ours is Man vs Food, and yet another favorite is Food Wars.

One day, however, I was watching the History Channel. It's educational, right? It was a special all about Chicago style pizza. Deep dish pan pizza. Soft and buttery with just a small crunch at the end. Tons of cheese and chunky tomato. Pizza you can't fold. And that's when I decided I had to go to Chicago. It was lust at first sight.

So, up, up and away. Leaving my loving husband behind to fend for pizza by himself, I headed to Chicago for pizza-lover heaven.

It was also known as Pequod's, located in Lincoln Park. We ordered a small pepperoni. Famous for their caramelized crust and, interestingly enough, "baked in cast iron pans blackened by decades of seasoning", this pizza was well-worth the flight. Two slices down the hatch and the belt needed to be moved one notch over.

I've had the famous Pizzeria Due in Chicago, and Pequod's certainly poses as competition. Next trip, however, you will find me someplace where stuffed pizza can be found. I can't wait to try a true pizza "pie".

Friends will tell you I went to visit them, but don't let them fool you. It was the love affair with pizza and the terrible, terrible vulnerability to the idiot box messages. Don't tell my husband.

Anglocizing Names and Visiting Mom and Dad

You call the company in charge of your phone service and it's answered by Josh, who suspiciously has a Chinese accent. You call your credit card company and Amy answers with her Russian accent. In the USA, you meet Koreans named Celine or Esther. Indians named Judy, Spencer, or even Javier.

Imagine you own a pizza joint called Ann's, home to arguably the most craveable pizza on Earth. Every Friday, like clockwork, an Indian sounding man calls and orders a pizza or two under the name of Sean. Oftentimes, an Indian sounding woman calls. Her name is also Sean. Occasionally, it's a younger sounding woman or man with no accent. Peculiarly, this goes on for over 10 years.

Flash to "Sean's" house, where little Shaan is growing older and asking questions. Why always me? Mom and dad answer only: They know Shaan. It's easier.

Over the years, the family's relationship with Ann's grows. The family lovingly calls the place "Annie's", and at the end of the delivery orders, Pizza Man says, "For Sean?" He recognizes the voice.

One Friday, there are visitors and a pizza with pepperoni and sausage is ordered. "Guests tonight, I see," the man says.

They call on Thursday to order calzones: "This is out of the ordinary," Pizza Man says. Annie's knows their schedule.

A good relationship with your favorite pizza place is like that of old friends. Or maybe nosey neighbors. But either way, it is comforting when you walk into the shop to pick up your pizza for the first time in months, and the owner says, "Hey! Good to see you!"

This was the case last Friday, when we went home to visit Shaan's parents and picked up the Friday night pizza. Pizza Man greeted the real Shaan with friendly familiarity--the kind you only receive as a "regular". Temped to devour half the pizza in the car ride back, we consumed it with delight over pleasant conversation with Mom and Dad (Sean and Sean). There is something about the way they cut the circular pizza into squares and the greasi-, salti-, soft-, crunchi-, cheesi-, perfect crusted-ness that brings you back over and over... to visit your parents, of course.

We are already craving a Friday night visit with Mom and Dad again. See you again soon!

Santarpio’s: The Best in New England?

First, we must apologize for the lack of recent pizza related postings. We are experiencing busy times in our non-pizza lives, if you can believe aspects of our lives do exist that are not intertwined with our favorite food. We recognize that as budding bloggers this is not the ideal way to gain readership. So, we offer our apologies and our promise to give you our best efforts going forward.

Last Friday, our first pizza night of autumn, we visited an old school pizza parlor in East Boston that goes by the name of Santarpio’s Pizza. A friend called it “excellent” and urged us to try it. To boot, Santarpio’s edged out the Upper Crust in New England Cable News’ poll of the best pizza in New England. So, on a chilly and rainy Friday night, Kelly picked Shaan up from work. We battled the Friday evening Boston traffic, heavy rain and multiple GPS (and navigator) failures, finally to arrive across the Harbor at Santarpio’s.

Santarpio’s is a no frills pizza shop. The patrons are mostly local, credit cards are not accepted, the tables are small and tight and the menu is limited to a handful of pizzas and lamb or sausage from the grill. We went with our old faithful, pepperoni and cheese. At first bite, we were delightfully surprised. The pepperoni was under the cheese, a pizza building method loved by Shaan. The sauce was perfectly spiced and included chunks of tomato, pizza artistry admired by Kelly.

However as we reached the crust of our first slices, some of our love for Santarpio’s faded. The crust was disproportionately thick and a bit burnt. For these reasons, we must disagree with the viewers of New England Cable News. While satisfying on a damp and cool night, we cannot say that Santarpio’s is the best ‘zza in New England. With excellent pies served up at Café Rialto, Pizzeria Regina (the one in the North End, only), and the Upper Crust right here in Boston, it may be a while before we venture across the Harbor to Santarpio’s again.