Friday, May 8, 2020
pizza. a love letter to new york.
Pizza. Not a whole pie but the quintessential slice - one that's just crispy enough that you get the satisfying crack as you fold it in half. It should be a little too big for the plate, with red pepper flakes that you shake on it from the communal (god, remember communal things) shaker and the right amount of oily cheese. Pizza slices eaten on street corners or stoops or while speed walking to catch a train. This is what I miss. At the start of quarantine, eating meals at a leisurely pace with cloth napkins, on real plates, in a silent room, while reading the latest issue of NYMag felt like the luxury I've always wanted. But now, 6 weeks in, I long to consume something pulled directly from a paper bag, piping hot, surrounded by strangers. I miss snippets of conversations. I miss burning my tongue in a rush to eat. I miss flimsy paper napkins that barely absorb anything despite being giving a stack 1/2 inch high but no one complains because they satisfy a need. I miss taking all of 3 minutes to eat, looking down and saying a silent thank you to the gods that I didn't manage to get a fleck of tomato sauce on my shirt, and then, finding a trash can to throw away the grease soaked paper plate before rushing off.