The idea of eating pizza every week occurred to my prince and me
last night as we ventured a little further from our home base in pursuit of a
pizza I fondly remembered from my days as a single gal living in Powderhorn
Park. (For the record, I lived near the
park, not in the park. I wasn't homeless, for God's sakes. If I
was, how could I have enjoyed all this pizza?!?) I recently sold my
beloved South Minneapolis home and was waxing nostalgic about all the
advantages of living "in the city" which, naturally, included pizza
delivery to your front door from places other than Papa John's (or Domino's or
Pizza Hut. I know you're picking up what I'm putting down here.)
Now, I'm not criticizing big papa here, so
before some Papa John's loving stockholder decides to take umbrage to my
previous statement, I want the chance to explain myself. After a long
day, toiling in the salt mines - or in my case, sitting on my behind with a
phone jammed in my ear in a cubicle that is eerily similar to the pens they
keep future veal in - sometimes, you just want to come on home, rip off your
stupid big girl pantsuit, rock some cookie monster jammies, and not worry about
dinner. Of course, if you're me, that's typically the same day you
realize that your refrigerator contains some yogurt that is well on its way to
transforming from pro to anti-biotic; a bottle of beer; and a hunk of cheese.
The freezer doesn't look much better and your dinner choices are dry
cereal, beer, and/or cheese. You don't want to get dressed, you just want
to plop down on the couch, watch some Real Housewives, and decompress. So
- you decide to order pizza. This is the kind of day you are grateful for
big papa. Papa John's doesn't force you to call them on the phone.
You can order right online without having to make nice to anyone.
And eventually, some pizza will arrive at your house. The delivery
driver will refuse to make eye contact with you so it won't matter than you are
in your jammies with Clearasil on your face and mismatched socks. As long
as you answer the door, don't let your dog maul the driver, and leave a tip,
there's no judgment.
On those other days - the days when you are wearing pants and fit for human
company - you might be up for some adventure. You might want to recapture
some moment from your past, or you might just want some really delicious pizza.
In my case, that day was yesterday, when I was simultaneously pining away
for the pizza delivery of my past and looking for ideas for my prince for a
Saturday date night. Fast forward and we found ourselves enjoying a
12-inch supreme pizza at Parkway Pizza in Minneapolis'
Longfellow neighborhood.
As we attacked this pizza like a pair of
starving wildebeests, I mentioned
that I am in need of a new project. Now that I've found my prince and we're
happily married, my previous blog about my
misadventures in dating is extinct, but my itch to write isn't. Through
mouthfuls of pizza, this idea was born.
Our Parkway Pizza date night was our first
of 52 weeks of pizza - and it was a bit of an experiment. Since the idea
for the blog was born mid-meal, I failed to do things like take good notes,
take photos, or chew with my mouth closed. So - if you want a real review
of Parkway Pizza, I'm going to refer you to Urban
Spoon or Yelp.
Instead, I'll give you my half-assed review which goes like this:
The pizza hit the spot. Thank God
they also serve wine and beer, because the joyful noises (aka din) of the
unsupervised youths running to and fro was getting on my last nerve.
There is street parking. When you walk into the restaurant, prepare
to be confused. No one will greet you or say hello and it's not clear
whether you should seat yourself or find a staff member. At first, I
thought it was just me but during the course of my dinner, I saw 5-6 patrons
walk in, look confused, and eventually approach the staff who are huddled
around a counter/cash register in the back to see what the deal was. The
food? It's a thin crust pizza, cut into squares, and the sauce was described by
my prince as both "different" (which is how Minnesotans describe things
they don't like, although in this case, I actually think he meant nothing
adverse by the statement) and "sweet". It's a neighborhood
joint that apparently just opened up in their new location, they advertise a
happy hour, and I noticed a lot of Yelpers commenting on gluten free options.
Me, I love some gluten so I can't comment on that. For a 12 inch
pizza, an order of wings, a strawberry soda for my main squeeze, and a very
generous pour of Canyon Road Chardonnay for
me, bill came to about $35 with tip.
While we ate a pizza and contributed our
share as good Americans to this $36 billion industry, an idea was born.
And now, we shall begin our bravest adventure yet - pizza. Every.
Single. Week.
I'll be updating this map of
places we've eaten (or plan to eat) pizza so you can follow our culinary
adventure, and your suggestions and recommendations are always welcome!
I'll be at the gym all week working off the sins of Saturday night at
Parkway Pizza, in preparation for our week 2 adventure at Latuff's Pizzeria.
© 2013 Princess D
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