I was halfway through a Hail Mary on my drive to work this morning when some jagoff coming the other way had on his high beams.
"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee... This fucking guy with his brights on!"
That is how my conversations with the Blessed Mother went this morning.
I pray a shit ton, I swear a shit ton, and sometimes I manage to do both in the same sentence.
I am sure the Virgin Mary has gotten used to me by now. She nudges my ma and says, "Here comes your son again. Let's see how far he gets through this one before he calls somebody an asshole."
Anyway, enough religion. Let's talk pizza.
Today is Tavern Style Pizza Day.
I celebrated a little early last night with the Shepley Brothers. We had ourselves a beautiful thin-crust pizza. Crispy as a cracker, just the right amount of sauce, and enough cheese to cover the top. Sausage on one side for Fritz and pepperoni on the other for George.
A perfect Chicago pizza on a Wednesday night.
Now, let's talk about this "tavern style" business.
The ultra-thin, cracker-like crust we Chicagoans grew up eating has its roots in the neighborhood taverns. Around the time of World War II, tavern owners figured out that putting a little pizza in front of their customers was a pretty good way to keep them drinking.
A salty piece of pizza makes a man thirsty. A thirsty man orders another beer, and another beer makes him hungry.
That is not a business model, that's perpetual motion.
The pizzas were cut into little squares, or what we called party cuts, so a guy could grab a piece, put it on a cocktail napkin, and keep one hand free for his beer.
For generations, Chicago had two kinds of pizza. Thin crust and deep dish, and despite what the Food Network and every tourist who ever visited Navy Pier might tell you, most Chicagoans grew up eating thin crust.
Deep dish was something you ordered when your cousins from Iowa came to town and wanted the authentic Chicago experience.
The rest of us were eating thin crust on Friday nights, drinking RC Cola, and watching television.
Nobody called it tavern style, Nobody.
Somewhere around 2005, a food writer from Pittsburgh started using the term, and before long, everybody was acting like Chicago had invented an entirely new species of pizza.
Vito & Nick's has been making its famous thin crust for generations. Home Run Inn on 31st Street wasn't asking anybody if they wanted tavern style either. They made pizza, Chicago pizza.
My old man never walked into the kitchen and announced, "Hey, kids, who wants some tavern style pizza tonight?"
He would pick up the telephone and order a large sausage and onion with a two-liter bottle of RC.
End of discussion.
But there was one thing my dad always said when he ordered pizza, and it is a piece of wisdom I have carried with me my entire life.
"NO CUT."
Two simple words.
My dad always ordered his pizza uncut. His reasoning was brilliant.
When you cut a pizza into twenty-six little squares and throw it in a cardboard box, those little bastards can slide all over the place on the ride home. Cheese ends up on the lid. Sausage ends up in the corner. By the time you get home, the pizza looks like it survived a rollover accident on the Eisenhower.
Leave the damn thing uncut, and it travels as one beautiful, intact pizza. It also stays hotter because you are not creating a bunch of little openings for the heat to escape. Then you get home, grab the pizza cutter, and slice it up yourself.
My old man wasn't a scientist, but he understood pizza transportation better than most engineers understand bridge construction.
Here is a little advice from the Morning Chalkboard. Always order your pizza NO CUT. You will thank me later.
I don't get all bent out of shape over the term tavern style. Some Chicagoans react to those words the same way they react to somebody putting ketchup on a hot dog.
Personally, I give two shits what you call it. Thin crust, tavern style, Chicago style or just pizza.
Just make it crispy, cut it into squares, and don't screw up the sauce.
There is one term I absolutely cannot tolerate.
"Za."
Who the hell started calling pizza "za"?
Another thing that I never heard my father say, "Hey, I'm gonna order a za from Joseph's Pizza for dinner."
We have been saying it correctly for a hundred years, leave it alone.
We have got another gorgeous October day lined up here in Chicago. Sunshine, warmth, and one more afternoon to enjoy before Mother Nature remembers we are supposed to be heading toward winter.
So, grab yourself a thin-crust pizza, a two-liter bottle of pop, or a cold six-pack of Old Style.
Find a comfortable chair, sit outside, and enjoy the sunshine Chalkheads.
