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 Olivia Chan
Pizza — it’s more than just bread and sauce and cheese. Sorry, Chicago, but what you have there is a tomato sauce bread bowl. New York pizza is the crispiness of a thin crust that lends itself to a doughy interior, the sweet yet acidic sauce with a slight hint of herbs, and cheese that fuses them altogether into pizza perfection.
As a Native New Yorker, I’ve had my fair share of pizza. Growing up with a mother who didn’t cook meant a lot of very high-quality after-school slices. As an adult, it’s meant Roberta’s at Madison Square Eats for work lunch, elating over there being no line at Prince Street Pizza, and a stop at Paulie Gee’s when I find myself in Greenpoint.
I’m not exactly a pizza snob, but if I’m paying for a fresh slice, it better taste better than frozen pizza. That preconceived notion led me to put off trying dollar pizza for years. If it costs as much as Celeste, it must taste like Celeste: packaged and like cardboard, just like the box it comes in.
So when I finally did have my first dollar slice, to find that it wasn’t a monstrosity, I was conflicted. Soon, it began an ongoing elicit affair. From heartbreak to long work hours to money-stricken times, the dollar slice has always been there, and I’m sorry I ever doubted it.
The First Meeting
I was in my early 20s, and had quit the television and film industry for a complete career change to advertising. That meant all-expense-paid team happy hours and dinners, and a salary that allowed me to live in an apartment with a bedroom that fit more than just a bed. I didn’t have to live the life, but I was used to a certain life style . My then-boyfriend, on the other hand, wasn’t—moving to a city with a significantly higher cost of living had eaten up his savings. Working as a community organizer at a non-profit helping underprivileged youth was fulfilling to him, but tough on his wallet.
The difference in income frequently led to a lot of compromise, especially when it came to food. At the time, he was mentoring a teen who had fallen into financially hard times. The three of us arrived at St. Marks Place, where my boyfriend wanted to buy him a meal—a tricky situation for someone who was also having a difficult time making ends meet. My offer to treat them both to dinner was politely shot down, which is how we found ourselves in front of 2 Bros Pizza.
The place buzzed with customers—mostly students or people who had a few too many drinks—in a steady stream of order, grab, and go. The employees behind the counter were furiously throwing slices into the oven, making pizza, and ringing customers up.
Good pizza or not, it was busy.
I apprehensively gave a dollar to my boyfriend for a plain slice, and stationed myself in the dimly lit seating area in the back. Eyeing the piles of garbage and spices-of-guests-past left on other tables, thoughts began to race through my mind. Why is the pizza so cheap? What is it made with? Will I get food poisoning?
A hot, plain slice landed on the table in front of me, interrupting my chain of panic. I studied it. It looked like a slice: sauce, cheese, crust. But will it taste like one?
It did.
It wasn’t as crispy as I preferred my pizza to be, but the doughiness added a bounce to the texture. Its breadiness was uniform with a large crust. It wouldn’t be my first choice, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. The cheese was light, with the sauce peeping out from underneath. Despite the medley of contrasting elements, they all somehow came together into pizza that exceeded my expectations of a dollar slice.
Maybe it was because I was there with someone I liked, which turned the whole world rosy, with butterflies and rainbows, rainbow colored butterflies, butterflies flying towards rainbows, whatever. In any case, dollar pizza had definitely piqued my interest, and dare I say, maybe I even liked it.
One to Rely On
Two months later, I would find myself in the arms of dollar pizza once again.
It was the night of my 24th birthday, and I had gotten dinner and drinks with my friends. Maybe too many drinks. My then-boyfriend was meeting up with a friend of his from out-of-town, with the promise of showing up to my birthday right after.
He didn’t.
I was on St. Marks once again (early-20s, don’t judge), and had seen my friend safely to the train, when he finally called.
He had gotten drunk, his phone died, and he had no way of getting a hold of me, so he went home. “I’ll come out now,” he pleaded, in an attempt to rectify the whole situation.
It was nearly 3 in the morning, and it was too late.
“It’s fine. I’ll see you another time,” I said, though obviously it was not fine that I’d gotten stood-up on my birthday.
I walked angrily down St. Marks Place. My heels gave off a distinctive click-clack with each stride that hit the pavement, and I was determined not to end the night of my 24 th birthday on such a downer note. I thought for a moment about going to a bar to drink alone, when I looked up to see I’d ended up in front of 2 Bros.
This second meeting was distinctively better than the first. Anyone who says dollar slices are better after drinking, is right. Your senses are blurred, your inhibition out the window. It’s fresh and hot, and you want it. What you saw in it sober skepticism is now seen through a lens of “best idea ever.”
I pushed the boundaries and experimented by throwing a generous layer of garlic powder onto a slice: it only elevated the experience.
For Better or For Worse
After that fateful couple nights on St. Marks, I lost touch with dollar pizza. Little did I know, it was once again when I was at my lowest that it would resurface.
I was in the middle of another career change, and had thrown away the comfort of a check to transition into a career I wanted. The shift came with a price—literally. Gone were the days of living the life. Now I could barely live on my salary. The company I was working for wasn’t paying minimum wage, but that’s a whole another pizza-unrelated story.
I had forgotten to bring my lunch, and drinking copious amounts of office coffee wasn’t suppressing my appetite. In an effort to take my mind off the racket my stomach was making, I went out for a walk during lunch and wandered by 99¢ Fresh Pizza.
After fishing out $1 in quarters from my wallet, I bit into the dollar slice. It was a bit different from my last two experiences: this time, heavily flavored with nearly acrid garlic, but it was comforting and nonetheless, I welcomed the taste of its pizza imperfection.
The Best Isn’t Always Last
My most recent time eating a folded dollar slice of pizza was ironically over an unfolding romantic story, or rather—one that was in the midst of folding. While we ate, the guy I was seeing threw the “friends” card on the table. After six months, he said he was unable to see a future for us.
I bit into my slice, and couldn’t help but feel like our relationship echoed my sentiments about dollar pizza. There was nothing quite wrong, yet it never felt quite right. I threw garlic powder and oregano on top, hoping it’d salvage things.
“All good things come to an end,” he said.
I threw away my half-eaten slice into the garbage. They were both things I couldn’t finish.
