BEATING THEM TO IT!

We have a tradition in my house, pizza on a Friday night. This was instituted by TLW (The Little Woman) almost 42 years ago when we started our partnership. It seemed that TLW was tired of cooking all week, and pizza was her night off.

Mom would make fish or a pizza, but the liberated women of the ‘70s were different.

If we don’t have pizza on Friday night, TLW would be lost, even though I am doing the cooking now. I fully understand and appreciate her reasoning for pizza on a Friday.

We call in our order at Albert’s pizzeria, and we usually order the Grandma Pie. This pie was designed to annoy me, and have a deep wish to scream when I hang up the phone after ordering it. It goes like this, week after week.

“Albert’s, pick up or delivery?”

“Pick up.”

What can I get you?”

“I’d like your Grandma Pie.”

Here it comes…

“You mean the pie with fresh plumb tomatoes and garlic and basil????” (No, the one with peanut butter and jelly you ninny)

“That’s the one.”

“Name?”

“Del”

“Oh, Mr. Del, how ya doin? 20 minutes.” And so goes my conversation on the phone every Friday night at about 6:30 pm. And every Friday when I call: “You mean the pie with fresh plumb tomatoes and garlic and basil????”

Now don’t get me wrong, Albert’s Grandma Pie is the best, without question, it’s THE question:

“You mean the pie with fresh plumb tomatoes and garlic and basil????”

AHHHGGG!!!

Well, I got him this time, and he sounded a little annoyed

“Albert’s, pick up or delivery?”

“Pick up.”

What can I get you?”

“I’d like your Grandma Pie.”

Here it comes…

“I mean the pie with fresh plumb tomatoes and garlic and basil!”

Sore loser.

A SACRILEGE

There are some things in life I hold very dear. There are traditions such as Christmas Eve dinner, with the 7 fish and lobster sauce with spaghetti, a steak on a Saturday night and of course my pizza on a Friday night. These are events that should not be trivialized, disrespected or treated in any way that displeases me. Great attention to detail is a must since these events are so important.

The pizza fix is really a TLW (The Little Woman) tradition started about 40 years ago when she was home with the kids and to reward herself for not killing me for going to work while she stayed home to cook, clean and take care of two small children all week would order pizza on Friday nights. See Thursday, June 02, 2011 blogue http://delbloggolo.blogspot.com/search?q=Albert%27s+Pizza

This is an outgrowth of the meatless Friday’s that Catholics had to endure, until they changed things when the Vatican cook was getting testy on Friday’s and didn’t want to cook fish anymore.

So last Friday came around and I get the cue from TLW as the phone rings:

“Jello?”

“Hi, I’m about to leave now, you can call for the pizza.”

I hang up and call the pizza place.

“Albert’s, pick-up or delivery?”

“Pick-up Rosie.”

“Mr. Del, how are you today? The usual?”

“Yes Rosie, and make it half pepperoni.”

“You got it Mr. Del, twenty minutes.”

So far everything was running smoothly, everyone was doing his or her part and on cue, it was as usual coming together nicely. Except for one individual who will go nameless.

Some time later about 45 minutes since TLW called, she walks in carrying the precious cargo. I have set up the TV to play a DVD of a Downton Abbey episode, the paper plates and napkins are out and the drinks set up, I am ready to rock and roll, lay that pizza on me baby!

We greet each other in the customary way, and after shaking hands we sit down to eat. I select what looks like a nice cheesy and peppered pepperoni slice and bite into it.

Suddenly my life is rolling before my eyes. Bad things are coming to mind, all the pain and suffering I have ever had is filtering through this one bite! Something is terribly wrong! The pizza, my slice of heaven, the thing of Friday night beauty is not right.

“What the (^%#?”

I look at the pizza as TLW watches and wonders what she had against being a single woman that could be so bad.

Looking under the pizza, it is jet black! Jet Black! Someone wasn’t minding my pizza while cooking it and not checking their work!

Outraged I pick up the phone and call the pizza guy. This time I get one of the many guys that are too busy joking and talking instead of paying careful attention to my pizza!

“Hello? This is Mr. Del, the Little Woman just picked up a pizza I ordered and it is uneatable. THE BOTTOM IS JET BLACK!”

“Oh! I’m sorry Mr. Del, can you come on back down in 20 minutes and I’ll make you another one?”

“OK, do you want me to bring the pizza with me?”

“Noooo, you have been coming here for years, we believe you.”

I figure, why not and hang up. Then it occurs to me, what to do with all that pepperoni that is sitting on the burnt pizza, that is still good? I decide.

“Toots, don’t throw out that pizza!”

I go back, pick up the new pie amid mass apologies and walk out a little disappointed. I figured I’d get a bag of garlic knots for the inconvenience!

I get home and start loading the new pizza with the pepperoni from the old pizza: I have struck gold! Well maybe I struck pepperoni.

ROSIE!

Since I’ve been married, TLW (The Little Woman) has asked for pizza on Friday nights. This is because she hates to cook and Friday night would be her night off as a mom and housewife. Traveling home from the railroad every night, left me in no mood to want to cook, even though I love to.

Then when I retired, she went to work and the tradition stayed, and we have evolved into a more sophisticated patron of pizza, choosing a particular type, called the Grandma Pie. I happen to like this type because it is made with plum tomatoes, basil and garlic, and all the ingredients are fresh.

In our quest for pizza happiness two things happened along the way that had a profound effect on my enjoyment of the Friday night ritual. One was finding the Grandma pie by accident, and two ‘Rosie’.

The accident happened one Friday when Albert’s Pizzeria happened to deliver the wrong pizza to my door. Not knowing what TLW had ordered, I took the pizza and paid for it. It was not my usual square pie, but it looked interesting. Its soft melted cheese seemed to claim all the unoccupied landscape that did have the glistening plum tomatoes, fresh basil and garlic. The smell and look of things reminded me of when Mom or Dad made homemade pizza when I was a kid. Taking one bite and I knew two things: one they weren’t getting this pizza back and two, this was the new Friday night routine! As sure as I’m a holy man… as sure as I’m a religious man… ok, but I do go to church every Sunday… a lot of Sundays, the delivery guy came back with the correct order, saw it was too late, so he gave us the pie we had ordered for free! Boy, what a night!

So we started to call every Friday night and this wonderfully friendly lady would answer:

“Albert’s, pick up or delivery?”

“Pick up, I’ll have the Grandma Pie! The name is Del.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“That’s it.”

“That will be 25 minutes, Mr.Del.”

And so every Friday night:

“Albert’s, pick up or delivery?”

“Pick up, I’ll have the Grandma Pie! The name is Del.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“That’s it.”

“That will be 25 minutes, Mr.Del.”

Then the conversation changed.

“Albert’s, pick up or delivery?”

“Pick up, I’ll have the Grandma Pie!”

“This you Mr. Del? How are you? Can I get you anything else?”

“That’s it Rosie.” We had introduced ourselves formerly one Friday.

“That will be 25 minutes, Mr.Del.”

Before you knew it, the Grandma pie was synonymous with Mr. Del.

Then one Friday I called in and a tiny little girl’s voice answered, it wasn’t Rosie! No longer was there that assurances that my pizza would be there for me, that they would even have the correct order! It was a cold and disappointing feeling, knowing that Rosie was no longer there, that this stranger was taking my order! Why it felt like I was kissing my sister. The warmth that accompanied my pizza on Friday nights with Rosie’s reassuring voice was no more. This pain of separation lasted for too long, and I was eating just ‘pizza’.

Then one Friday I called in.

“Albert’s, pick up or delivery?”

“Pick up, I’ll have the Grandma Pie!” The voice had changed! Could it be?

“You mean the pie with the fresh basil, plum tomatoes and garlic?”

“That’s it.”

“Is this Mr. Del!”

“ROSIE! You’re back. How great is that!”

“That will be 25 minutes, Mr.Del.”

That night, the world seemed right again, that night pizza had warmth, and taste, and damn it was good!

THE PARTY IS THE MESSAGE

Last Saturday night we had the 89th birthday party for Mom, and she loved every bit of it. The food was a hit as was the gift and the guest of honor seemed genuinely touched.

It’s nice to see my sisters all in one room for a change, laughing and chatting and relaying their lives and appetizers to the rest of us. We all made an appetizer and had the dinner catered, while I bought my contribution by going to Albert’s Pizzeria on Portion Road in Ronkonkoma, NY where they were kind enough to cut it into many small pieces to be used as an appetizer. The pizza is called a “Grandma” pie, with fresh crushed plum tomatoes and fresh garlic and basil as the topping. It is the best, and was indeed a big hit to everyone who ate!

Accompanying Mom was her boyfriend, who gave her a present and a kiss on the lips that seemed strange to me to see it happen. Don’t get me wrong, Mom is entitled to be happy and I hope she is, but I never saw her kiss anyone but her Uncle, and my father when he was alive.

Life is getting predictable as all the men retreated in front of the TV to watch the Mets play the Yankees or fall asleep sitting in a low slung position on the couch and chairs with wine glasses all around, half filled. The women sat at the dining room table competing for word domination as they chatted and chatted over the course of the evening.

I did my part, testing every variation of appetizer presented and seriously testing the red wine for purity, consistency in glass after glass, and to see generally if I could sustain my sobriety and not embarrass TLW (The Little Woman/Winner.)

THE PIZZA QUEEN

I happened to marry royalty! Yes, I married the Queen of Pizza Eating. She reigns every Friday night at home in our den, working her way through slices of pizza, and for 35 years it has been the custom.

It really doesn’t matter what kind of diet is currently vogue, what kind of dietary restrictions she may impose upon herself, on Friday its pizza. I myself may have started the trend since it was customary when I was growing up, but then again it may have been the Little Woman who started it when we married. We grew up where Friday was a meatless day, so a cheese pizza was the order of the day.

We have in the last few years devoted ourselves to a certain style of pizza called the grandma pie. It happened quite by accident one Friday night. We ordered a pizza, and asked for a delivery. The pizza came in a square box instead of the elongated rectangular shape we were used to. I accepted delivery and though it strange that the shape of the box was different. I paid the delivery guy and brought the pizza inside and opened it. It was the grandma pie, a square pie made with plum tomatoes, fresh garlic and basil. It is the best pie in the Albert’s pie arsenal. You cannot get, and I repeat cannot, get this made anywhere else like Albert’s makes it.

At first I was angry that they made the mistake, but decided to eat it anyway. I took one bite out of it, and the delivery guy knocks on my door, just as I am savoring this beautiful creation and thinking: “wow, this is good!” Too late for the deliveryman, so he gives us free of charge the pizza we did order too! I hope there is a place in heaven for him.

The Little Woman’s dedication to pizza is not the cheese, not the sauce, not the freshness of the dough, but the fact that she doesn’t have to cook or do dishes.

As I write this I am expecting her Highness, the Queen of Pizza any moment now, since it is Friday evening and she is picking up the pie. But she is not alone in her adoration of the pizza.

My dog Happy is devoted too. Whenever the pie is delivered, Happy runs to the door and barks up a storm at the deliveryman, when he leaves, she does a 180 and heads to the pizza, and sits on her haunches as she waits for one of us to toss her the crusts. I really think that my Dad has come back as Happy the dog. Happy like my Dad loves lettuce as well as pizza.

So as I am about to sit and imbibe upon this culinary delight let us
“ ALL HAIL THE QUEEN OF PIZZA-LONG LIVE THE QUEEN AND LONG LIVE PIZZA!

If you would like to verbally punch me in the nose, you can by writing to delgraphics@optonline.net.

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