All I want is a decent slice of pizza!

     I almost got away with it.

     After polling my remaining two kids (the oldest is in college), we decided on the night's menu:  Pizza!  Two different types, one Pepperoni, one Supreme.  I was almost out the door when my wife caught me.

     "Well, why don't you go to Hungry Caesar's Pizza John?" she asked [I scrambled the names here intentionally].

     "I don't want to go there" I answered.  I wanted to try a local, non-franchise place recently opened by some guys from New York.  But as a dutiful husband I was willing to compromise (i.e., get neutered).  "Do you have any suggestions?" I asked.

      "How about a Chicken Alfredo Pizza?  Or perhaps Margarita?"

     To an old fashioned New Yorker like me, the thought of white sauce or fruit flavors on a pizza is an abomination.  Fashionable foodies and health-conscious people like my wife may see these as interesting alternatives.

     To me, they are circles of vomit.

     I haven't had a decent slice of pizza since I left New York.  This is not meant as a sleight to other cities; it's just that my encounters with non-Gotham pizza have been horrendous.

     In Nashville, TN. (1979 to '83) my college served rectangular pizza that wasn't remotely Sicilian.  When you bit into it, the carpet of processed cheese and sausage slid off the bread and dangled from your chin.

    In Savannah, GA. (1980), the Riverfront is fantastic.  But at one spot I had a pizza whose crust was so hard, that all we could do was scrape off the cheese and eat it with a fork.

    In Binghamton, N.Y. (1983 to '86), several of the convenience stores sold cold pizza next to the cash register.  Just lift the Saran Wrap and give the cashier a dollar.  Free flies with every purchase.  Of course, I didn't buy any; besides being repulsed, I was in grad school and couldn't spare the dollar.

     And now I sit in Florida, fantasizing about authentic delicacies from their namesake cities:  A Chicago-style dog, a Philly Cheese Steak, a Nathan's from Coney Island.  Once again, this is not a slap against restaurants in other cities that serve knockoff versions; rather, this is a commentary on how commercialized, nationally produced food has lowered the bar.

     My perfect pizza is more than a recipe; rather, it is determined also by location, artistry and its effect.  For me, it comes from Jamaica Avenue and Guy Brewer or Sutphin Blvds. or from Parsons and Hillside, all in Queens, N.Y.  For me, it is the guys twirling the ever-widening disk of dough in the air, tossing it on their fingertips.  This is the pizza that compels men and women in expensive suits to eat while running to their next meeting.  This is the pizza that pigeons aggressively demand, feasting on your discarded crusts.  This is the pizza that fuels every cinematic, literary and cultural stereotype in the minds of tourists around the world.

     The best things in life aren't always free.  But they sure taste great, folded in half.

     Always B Positive!