This week's football review featured notes on a hippie pizza joint we tried last weekend with mixed results. One tangential result of this is that some of our East-Coast-based readers have challenged our authority on this subject. And maybe they're right. Maybe there's something in the water here that prevents NOLA natives from being able to taste grease and cheese properly. I kind of doubt that, though. But since I've spent my young adulthood collecting a never-ending series of lectures from transplants on the many things that New Orleanians are unqualified to do I don't find it very surprising. Boston born Rudolph, for example, continues to insist that none of us have a clue what "real ice cream" is supposed to taste like. I mean... it's ice cream. Get a grip, already.
And this is also how I feel about pizza. It's bread, it's cheese, it's baked grease. How nuanced does this conversation really need to be? My own East-Coast-born transplanted wife, in fact, insists that any deviation from the most basic crust-cheese-grease formula is a pretentious abomination. While I have sympathy with the spirit of her argument, I can't say I fully buy in at her level of orthodoxy (I sometimes like to order a few vegetables on mine).
Anyway my purpose here is to point you to Blackened Out where they're also discussing pizza this morning and running a survey of everyone's favorite. I can't help but notice that the hippie pizza place is not an option in the poll.
Update: Cousin Pat offers a treatise of his own on the subject here.
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