A dotted line of hungry pizza lovers twisted away from the restaurant’s awning. A fluttering red flag planted firmly into brick and cement, announcing the famous pizzeria’s location to the world. I dug hands into coat pockets as my partner shivered under the assault of a stinging wind. Neither of us had come prepared for the chilled Buenos Aires winter.
The line moved quickly past the aged storefront and through gaping open doors. Not that the cashier taking orders had sped up. Customers simply wanted out of the plunging outdoor temperatures. COVID spacing be damned, icy winds and cold toes were the real dangers.
Every guestbook, hotel lobby, travel show, and pizza catalog pointed visitors to this particular spot. Past vacationers to the city whispered sweet nothings of the life-altering slices into my ears once they discovered my intention on moving to the Paris of South America.
Inside, patrons bump against one another like overzealous cattle at a feeding trough, eager to gobble up whatever might be deposited in front of them. I squinted as my brain did its best to convert a wall-mounted Spanish menu into English. Like a toddler struggling through a picture book, I need help from my friend.
Pizzas hawked by the slice sat gloriously on pedestals around the front counter. Trophies for hungry guests to aspire to. To jumpstart salivating mouths, if the smell of garlic and tomato and cheese hadn’t done so already. The cashier, a round, sweaty man in a stained white t-shirt and matching apron, called out orders to a platoon of support staff behind him. They tossed dough, dolloped sauce, grabbed toppings. Finished works of art slid out of ovens, replaced by raw pies occupying the briefly vacated space.
My friend offered to place our order, knowing all too well I’d struggle to answer any secondary questions in Espanol the round, sweaty man might have. Trusting my eyes more than my language comprehension, I pointed out two of the display idols grappling for my attention. One covered completely in translucent, shredded onion, the other blanketed in tomato slices and sheets of ham. The fatty meats and mozzarella cheese glistened almost as much as the man behind the counter’s forehead.
Breaking free of the crowd, I selected a standing-room counter, one of the few open and clean tabletops within the restaurant. Further back, a hall of sit-town tables for individuals brave enough to eat entire pizzas while under the watchful eyes of starving guests waiting for their orders.
Boxing out enough room for two with flared elbows, I watched my friend put in our order. The round, sweaty man called out something I couldn’t hear over the noise of the restaurant. A slender, younger man with a faded, well-worn shirt carved out my slices. Looking them over, he twisted around and popped both into the mouth of a microwave.
It didn’t take long for my eyes to find those of my companion, her lips upturned. I could hear her frustrated sigh from across the room. None of the glowing reviews, write-ups, features, recommendations, said anything about microwaveable pizza.
Sliding the individual slices back into the oven for a brief reheat would prove understandable. Pizzas sold by the slice cool, and inevitably will require reheating. But few restaurant sins are as unforgivable as openly blasting my food with electromagnetic radiation. At least do it behind closed doors where only the kitchen staff and alley rats can see the ungodly act taking place.
With reheated food in hand, my friend weaves her way to me, sliding over my slices.
“Microwave,” she said, with more disgust dripping from her lips than sweaty cheese from my pizza. “It is a good thing I bought Coke before we came.” She materialized the plastic bottle from a coat pocket and slid it onto the table like a different kind of coke addict eager to get a bump.
Biting into my first slice, the salt and fat of cheese and ham tasted like it once held promise. Yet cheese takes on a different textural complexity after spending time twirling in the microwave. Neither the subtle sweetness of the vine-ripened tomato nor the dab of hot sauce I sprinkled onto the slice could save the pizza from an unceremonious death. Reheated pizza is fine the next day, but few visit restaurants in search of day-old ‘za.
The crust of the second slice maintained most of its pre-reheating integrity. Having absorbed the salted fats of oil and cheese, it presented a satisfying taste, even with the slight moisture limp it carried from the microwave. A healthy helping of melting, oozing cheese ushered the blanket of sliced onions into my mouth.
The onions, a simple, often overlooked and rarely centralized ingredient, carried with them more memory than flavor. The subtle, sweet crunch snapped me back to times with my father. A man who asked very little of his pizza, other than it needing a healthy application of onions. We rarely spoke when enjoying our pizza. Whether sitting in front of a television on a school night or inside a restaurant after a busy week, pizza time was a satisfying time. A happy time.
Standing in the crowded restaurant, surrounded by strangers and yelling cashiers and the smells of countless pizzas made in the last 90 years, I felt, briefly, my father, a man long since gone from this earth, my family, and the memories pizza helped create. Or, at the very least, facilitate.
And that is the true magic of pizza. It’s not always the highest quality ingredients or the perfectly baked crust. It can be store-bought, freezer-stored, microwave reheated, tourist trap festered. Because few things taste better than a fond memory, and at that moment, I no longer cared about the texture of the cheese or the partially warm, partially cold crust.
I took a bump of shared Coke to wash it down, and all was well with the world.
That memory is enough to bring me back. I just need to make sure next time I order a fresh, non-microwaved pizza.