Week 5: Italian Pie Shoppe & Winery

I come from a long, long line of anxious people.  Perhaps you’re acquainted with some of my anxious ancestors and relations, and you therefore know of what I type.  While I’d like to pretend that I managed to dodge the anxiety bullet, I think we all know better.  While some of you were in line signing up for athleticism, basic balance, and mechanical skills, I opted for a double helping of “tall” and “anxious”.  Thus, it should really come as no surprise to me or anyone else that I am starting to find my own hobby stress-inducing.    

There appears to be no correlation between the actual consumption of pizza and my anxiety level.  It’s the commitment to weekly blogging about said pizza eating that is raising my already elevated (although improving, according to my recent check-up at Park Nicollet Clinic!  Thanks, Dr. Milburn!) blood pressure.  But don’t you worry – it’s nothing that a daily five mg pill can’t keep in check.

The blogging related stress began last weekend, which, to be fair, was a strange weekend altogether.  After spending most of my Friday fighting city hall and shrieking insults at various city workers at volumes so loud that people in New Zealand were asking me to pipe down, I woke up on Saturday feeling vaguely relieved to be in my own bed and not in one of Brooklyn Center, MN’s finest jail cells.  The sense of relief, however, was overshadowed by a deep and profound sense of utter shame and humiliation – the kind that only occurs when you completely lose your flipping mind and hurl every expletive you know (and maybe even some new ones) at a pear-shaped, power hungry, troll-like woman who happens to be your city building inspector.  I can’t defend my behavior.  It was as if I suddenly morphed into Theresa Guidice from Real Housewives of New Jersey and the building inspector was a much shorter, less attractive Danielle Staub with an accent straight out of Fargo instead of Newark.  Had there been a table within reach, I assure you, I would have recreated the infamous RHONJ finale.  It’s fair to say that I was definitely carrying a wagon-load of shame for my “straight out of central casting” ghetto-fabulousness while also harboring a fair amount of indignant rage when pizza night rolled around.

Week 5 brought us back to St. Paul, to a little pizzeria located near Macalester College.  Both the hubby and I were looking forward to pizza night.  He started clamoring for pizza, quoting his favorite lines from the 1996 Michael Keaton classic, Multiplicity, around 10 AM, and by 4:30 PM, I caved and like good senior citizens, we headed out for our early-bird pizza special.  What’s unique about week 5 is that this was the first truly “new” pizzeria we’ve sampled to date.  Sure, Week 2's Latuff's was a new experience for us, but it’s a place we drive by approximately 130 times a week and we’d talked about stopping in.  Week 5, on the other hand, was a brand new experience – a pizzeria recommended to me by an old friend, my former high school alphabetical neighbor.  (Side note: if you’re unfamiliar with the concept of alphabetical neighbors, it’s pretty simple.  Back when I was in school, we were often organized in seating charts, homerooms, locker assignments, etc by last name, meaning that I spent three years wedged between Adam K. and David L.) 

Thanks to social networks and the fact that I’m so old that I had a 20 year high school reunion a couple of years ago, I happen to know that my former alphabetical neighbor, David L., and his lovely family happen to share a zip code and local post office with us.  When he recommended the Italian Pie Shoppe & Winery on Grand Avenue in St. Paul, I quickly put it on our pizza itinerary, not realizing that there are actually three Italian Pie Shoppes in the Twin Cities, including one just a few miles from our front door in New Hope, MN.  But my alphabetical neighbor was quite specific in his recommendation, and since we are geographic neighbors now too, I figured that this pizza must be something special if he’s willing to drive to St. Paul for it.

Pre-pizza mood Ratings:

Princess D: 8

Hubby: 5

Our pre-pizza moods were impacted by an unexpected detour we took on our way to the Italian Pie Shoppe.  Since I am a lousy driver and my hubby can’t stand being a passenger in my car, we took his expensive German automobile and I kept my eyes clenched shut as we flew down I-94.  As we approached St. Paul, his car beeped angrily and informed him that it needed oil.  Because it’s an expensive German automobile, you know this car is high maintenance.  It won’t be satisfied with regular old gas station 5W-30 Penzoil.  Hell, no.  It needs special, expensive oil that can only be procured at automotive dealerships and specialty stores, which meant we were suddenly on the hunt for the closest O’Reilly Auto Parts store.  When we finally found the store, I opted to remain in the car, as I could see that the parking lot was rife with crazies, and they often confuse me for their patron saint.  The hubby bravely ventured indoors and that was the last time I saw him for 20 long minutes.  When he finally returned with the oil, he popped the hood, splattered oil all over himself and the engine, and got trapped in a conversation about fancy headlights with one of the crazies I refused to make eye contact with.  When he finally hit the gas and pointed us toward our pizza, he was crankier than normal, whereas I was feeling pretty good.  Not only was I not in jail, I cleverly eluded the weirdo convention at O’Reillys and I was about to eat pizza! 

Parking Situation:  

In spite of our pit-stop (pun intended!), we were still well in advance of the Saturday night dinner rush.  When you visit the Italian Pie Shoppe & Winery, be prepared to park on the street.  We were able to secure a great spot near the door, but I imagine that parking might be a challenge during prime dining hours.  When it’s not busy, even a parking-challenged idiot like me could manage to navigate a compact car into on-street parking, so I give passing grades on the parking situation.

Exterior Appearance:  The Italian Pie Shoppe & Winery in a quaint storefront in the middle of the block.  Sidewalk tables are available for those who prefer their pizza al fresco.  Me, I hate to sweat when I eat and the only thing I hate more than sweating while I eat is the possibility that a bird might crap on me, so we voted for indoor dining. 

Entrance/Welcome:  

We opened the door, walked in, and were greeted right away. A sign told us to seat ourselves, which we did. 

Interior Appearance: 

Frankly, this joint’s name (Italian Pie Shoppe & Winery) is bigger than its real estate footprint.  This is a petite pizza joint that does a brisk business.  Between delivery, eat-in, and their “take and bake” business, this place was hopping even at 5:30 PM on a Saturday, which is typically reserved for the AARP-crowd.  Although petite, the Italian Pie Shoppe is charming with old-style wooden booths, tables and chairs and high ceilings, and it feels like an old-fashioned, neighborhood pizza parlor, with nary a vampire in sight. Your water, soda, and even beer are served in an old mason jar and the tables feature old pre-WWII newspaper ads.  The restaurant itself might be petite but it has oodles and oodles of charm.

Clientele and Overall Vibe:  

As a neighborhood pizza parlor, this place attracts all kinds from families to neighbors to dating couples.  No one even blinked at the hubby’s eau de motor oil (he did wash his hands before we ate) and we felt comfortable in our jeans and t-shirts. 

Wait staff: Our server was amazing!  Not only did she make sure we had everything we needed, I watched her single-handedly run the entire restaurant while never missing a beat.  Since we were newbies, we consulted her for advice on the menu and she was helpful and quick to point out that the Italian Pie Shoppe is “the only place to get real Chicago style pizza in MN.” 

Menu Selection:  My alphabetical neighbor recommended stuffed crust pizza, but I was a little unsure.  I really dislike over-cheesed pizza and as such, I’ve never sampled a stuffed crust before.  The menu wasn’t much help, because although it pointed out that this place is known for “award winning pizzas”, they actually feature three different varieties and it’s not clear which one(s) are the award winners.  They can’t all be winners, right? 

You can order a thin crust, a deep dish, or a stuffed crust at the Italian Pie Shoppe.  Consult your high school alphabetical neighbor and your server, and you’ll be sold on a large stuffed crust pepperoni, sausage and mushroom.

Food Wait Time:  

The menu warns you upfront that a stuffed crust or deep dish could take up to 40 minutes to make it from the oven to your plate, so we were prepared to demonstrate patience.  Imagine our delight when our pizza arrived to our table within 30 minutes of placing our order.

Drumroll, please . . . the pizza itself:   

It’s a hung jury.  One of us was only able to shovel two pieces of this delicious pie into her pie-hole before her stomach waged a formal protest, but two pieces was more than enough for one of us to proclaim that this stuffed crust, deep dish, Chicago style pizza was the best thing she’s tasted.  (Have you guessed which one of us I’m referring to?) 

While the other one of us enjoyed several more pieces of this amazing delicacy, he maintains that nothing can top Week 4’s Red Savoy pie.  We both agreed, however, that there is something very special about the stuffed crust at Italian Pie Shoppe.  Served in a cast-iron skillet, this pizza was at least four inches deep with the classic “sauce-on-top” we all recognize as Chicago-style.  Layers of dough, cheese, and toppings created a true “pie” versus a pizza, and our pizza was crispy, tangy, saucy and yummy all at once.  Frankly, I lack the vocabulary to appropriately describe how much I enjoyed this pizza, so I’ll merely say this: if you haven’t tried a stuffed crust from the Italian Pie Shoppe, your life is incomplete.  You know what to do.

Price & Value:  

A stuffed crust pizza, I now understand, is not like your typical pizza.  It truly is like ordering a pie for dinner.  Where I can usually demolish half of a large pizza in one sitting (you don’t get hips like this by eating salads, folks), in spite of my strong desire to eat more, I could not eat more than two pieces of the stuffed crust pie.  For $20 plus tax, we got a 3-topping pizza.  I enjoyed a nice Mason-jar of Stella Artois while the hubby had his go-to iced tea with lemon and pink sweetener.  (He prefers the pink to the blue or yellow and is secure enough in his manhood to request it by color.)  Our total bill was just under $30 and we even had pizza leftover for lunch the next day.  At least, I seem to recall bringing pizza home.  I don’t believe I enjoyed any of the leftovers, which seems to be a recurring theme . . .

Waiting for the Check:  

Our server kept a close watch on us, and when it became clear that we were stuffed to the gills, she magically appeared with a box and the bill.  

Post-Pizza Mood:

Had we not spent our entire dinner rehashing the events of the previous day – also known as my great shame – and plotting various forms of revenge against the city of Brooklyn Center, I suspect we would have left with moods hovering around 10.  The incipient rage that accompanies dealing with bureaucratic nonsense knocked us down a peg, but we both agreed that a night at the Italian Pie Shoppe and Winery left us at a solid 9.

  

Bottom Line:  

Don’t make me repeat myself.  If this place is good enough for my former alphabetical neighbor to venture 15 miles out of his own ‘hood for a pizza pie, it’s good enough for you.  And if I happen to proclaim that it’s the best pizza I’ve had in the past five weeks of consecutive pizza eating, then your instructions are clear.  Get your butt to Grand Avenue.  Eat the pizza.  You’re welcome.