Each week, one of our favorite writers is drafting a list of every instance their favorite food saved their life. From slices of pizza to bagels, tacos to tamales, these emotional eats remind us that food is so much more than fuel.
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By Hannah Petertil
I broke my veganism with a Chicago deep dish pizza. It was glorious and I regret nothing.
Every time my dad and I would go visit his family we would end up in Uno’s, back when it was the premiere spot (now you should head to Lou Malnati’s or Giordano’s instead.) My first and most pressing question would always be about the pizza and when plans were finally confirmed my order would always be the same: Spinach. When you think about a New York slice with only spinach and cheese, it might make you feel a little sad, but not so in a Chicago pie, where the spinach is more reminiscent of a layer of lasagna than a pizza topping.
These yearly pilgrimages to visit family and overindulge on pizza stopped during middle school, when my dad was diagnosed with cancer. He had to cut out just about every single ingredient used in deep dish, in a diet more commonly known as veganism. Pizza eating was halted, and life became decidedly less youthful and carefree.
It was difficult to grasp how fast things were changing, and that those changes were bigger than dietary. Like anyone with a sick parent or close family member, my world turned upside down as our Wednesday night burritos and yearly deep dish pilgrimages seemed sacred and untouchable. Within my first month of college I had made up my mind: I was going vegan. The reason was threefold. One, my dad had taught me all I needed to know. Two, I didn’t really like meat. Three, I read a stupid book that touted veganism’s inherent ability to help you slim down and get fit. I called my new friends to come over to my dorm, and fed them all the animal products in my fridge. I watched them eat a wine-soaked chicken as I polished off a giant block of Jarlsberg.
After that, I was all in. For two years I baked cupcakes with oil, found crazy uses for tofu (ones not even my tofu loving father had dreamt up) and dutifully ordered Domino’s, hold the cheese. But I also counted calories and used my new lifestyle choice to control a little sliver of my chaotic life. Some of what I did was healthy, but looking back on it now, a lot of it wasn’t.
A couple years into our shared veganism, my dad and I had flown out to Chicago and during a diner breakfast in downtown Oak Park, he slathered butter on his waffle. I inspected my completely non-memorable meal while we started talking about his health, our veganism, and his reintroduction to animal products. In his signature tone (a funny mix of very serious and oh-so relaxed) he told me he was doing better, that he could afford a few indulgences. But the conversation soon turned to me, and when he asked why I was vegan, I couldn’t think of one compelling answer.
That night, every last Petertil in Chicago (nine of us in total) pulled up a chair at a giant table in Lou Malnati’s. Not one person asked questions as I dug into my first non-vegan food in years.
Honestly, I thought I would feel guilty. I figured it would feel wrong. But it was so damn delicious, I didn’t even notice. Now, I eat deep dish as often as I can. And I don’t hesitate to tell New Yorkers that their hate for the thick crust and layers of cheese is out of line. Deep dish made me who I am today, and for that I am very hungry, I mean, thankful.
