childhood

Real pizza has sauce…got that California?

It was around 100 degrees today and my office experienced a rolling blackout. Lights came back on but the internet didn’t. Of course with no internet, the whole office didn’t know what to do with itself. What did people do back in the day in their cubicles, before internet? Did people just twiddle their thumbs hoping someone, someday, somewhere would give them some work to do? Luckily for workers everywhere, Al Gore invented the internet. Three Bronx cheers for that. I jest folks. The heat is getting to my brain. The local radio station fried an egg outside just from the heat. To think that could have been our brain on drugs. If you have no idea what I am facetiously referring to, well, lucky you.

The heat was powerful but I finally got some natural vitamin d. My body thanks whatever brought this unsual heat to southern California.

Now, if only I could get the powrs that be to bring real pizza to California, I would be all set. The heat’s intensity had me craving pizza. I was craving juicy, gooey, yummy, oily, foldable pizza. I was craving New York. Every once in a while this New York gal gets to miss her hometown, her homeland. Yes, New York is a world onto itself. And I wanted a piece of that New York pie.

Two days ago, my Uber driver in Los Angeles told me about a hole in the wall pizza parlor he had gone to out in New York. He said nothing compared to that ever. For him, the sauce was everything as it is for me.

When I bite into a pizza, I expect grease to run down my cheek as I wipe off the sauce from my blouse. Pizza is not just about the cheese or the crust (yes, I’m talking to you all in Chicago). Pizza is about that sauce. When there is no sauce, it might as well be foccaccia or some faux pizza-like appetizer. Sauce! Why is it so hard to comprehend that pizza needs sauce? Don’t we grow tomatoes in California?

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I went and got a pizza from an LA joint that claims to be New York style pizza. The cheese was good but there was no sauce. No sauce. I pulled up the cheese and there was a dollop of sauce. I wanted to cry for my beloved New York but I was hungry. While I ate my cheesy but soulness pizza, I dreamt of childhood pizza slices I would eat while sipping Hawaiian Punch. Oh, so good.

Here is the thing. New Yorkers are saucy people. Our personalities are saucy and our foods are as well. Even our bagels, while not technically sauce, come with what is ostensibly a brick of cream cheese. We tend to talk a lot. We need to keep out mouths watered.

Lay it on us. We can take it. Truly. You know what they say..if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. That’s partly due to the powers of perseverance we get from our sauce. Go ahead and ask anyone. Most assuredly, Batman will back me up on this one. Where’s that bat signal? I suppose I’m not in Gotham anymore.

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