New York Pizza

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Had a hankering for a couple of slices this evening. Stopped off at New York Pizza, a place near my home in Southern California. Let me say that again: Stopped off at NEW YORK PIZZA.

Walked in. Was greeted by a guy; I think he’s the owner.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll take two slices of cheese.”

“We don’t do slices.”


“We can make you a miniature pie in 10 minutes.”

I walked out, frustrated and breathing fire. I’m sorry, but you can’t friggin’ refer to yourself as New York Pizza without having slices. You just can’t. It’s not allowed, not permitted, not legal under the Jeff Pearlman laws of the land. It’s 1,000 times wrong, and I’m betting the guy who owns New York Pizza has never even had New York pizza. Or, for that matter, visited New York.

The beach … the beach … the beach … the beach … the beach …

1 thought on “New York Pizza”

  1. Oh, you zany, solipsistic New Yorkers. You’re like my close friend from Montreal, who won’t eat bagels unless they’re Montreal bagels, or touch pastrami unless it’s Montreal smoked meat. Because after all if they;’re not Montreal bagels or smoked meat, they’re nothing. I love Montreal bagels and smoked meat, but give me a break.

    But there is no question that if you call yourself a New York or New York-style pizzeria, you must offer slices. To fail to do so is an abomination. I feel your pain.

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