Pizza Chains

I want to drive my minivan to the mall and order a pie from a server with a name tag.

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This week’s post is a little different! It’s a short piece I wrote for my dear pals over at The Gullet, a terrific weekly newsletter that features stories about food. They’ve kindly allowed me to republish it here. Hope you enjoy.

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I’ve lived in New York City since I was five. Still, I’ve always fostered a secret lust for suburbia.

This sounds blasphemous, I know. The best city in the world was my childhood playground, and I dreamed of trading it in for strip malls? You bet. Luckily, about half a mile north of the apartment I grew up in, there was a portal to suburbia: California Pizza Kitchen.

Space is the prime commodity in the Big Apple. Anyone who has survived an apartment search in the five boroughs knows this to be true. We accept that closets can be bedrooms and that “kitchen” is a subjective term that can be applied to any space that features a sink and a microwave. A studio counts as a loft if you’re okay with squinting.

And yet, the 60th Street California Pizza Kitchen defied those rules. It was a two-story behemoth set back about one hundred feet from the sidewalk. The restaurant was preceded by a plaza of trees and benches that I’m pretty sure had been copy/pasted from the designs for a medical complex in Cincinnati.

Inside, the magic continued. Through the revolving door, diners were greeted by a host at a host stand. To the left was a small dining section of about a dozen hi-tops. To the right was an open-air kitchen where employees donned possibly-offensive chef costumes as they tossed balls of dough in the air and inserted pies into cavernous woodfire ovens with those long pizza spatulas. Directly behind the host stand was the piéce de résistance: a grand, winding staircase whose black granite steps curved in tandem with the metal railing to guide diners to the main upstairs dining room. In a city that packs hungry diners in like cattle, the 60th Street California Pizza Kitchen treated us like minivan owners who deserved to stretch our legs.

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Living in the heart of New York City meant that the apartment I shared with my mom became an unofficial hostel for any visiting college friend. Whenever we had a guest, I happily assumed the role of tour guide, walking them through the purchase of their very first MetroCard, taking them to landmarks they’d only seen in pictures, and hailing taxis with Carrie Bradshaw ease.

When it came time to eat, though, there was only one spot I wanted to take them.

“How about pizza?” I would propose.

Their eyes would glisten with excitement. But by the time we reached the Cincinnati tree plaza I could sense confusion.

“CPK?” They would ask incredulously, sometimes with a laugh that descended into a disappointed sigh. “I have one where I’m from.” They had probably been hoping for some hole-in-the-wall joint where a guy named Sal would gruffly toss them a hot slice on two paper plates before using his fingers to articulate how much it cost.

“Trust me,” I would say. “It’s the best.”

I wasn’t trying to bully these visitors into an experience they didn’t want, I simply wanted to bring them to my favorite dining experience in New York City.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m a bonafide New Yorker who knows the wonders of authentic NYC ‘za (also: I fold my slices before I eat them). And yet, the siren song of suburbia called to me. I yearned for the sprawling homes I saw on the Disney Channel. I coveted the plush lawns of Home Depot commercials and the picket fence that framed the Slomin Shield families. I longed to live in the tree-lined streets of a John Hughes movie where the flicker of lampposts doubled as dinner bells. I wanted to luxuriate in wall-to-wall carpet so I could feel the house softly shake as one of two garage doors rattled open.

Credit: David McNew

When our table was ready the host would guide us up the staircase, wielding plastic menus bigger than her torso. It was when we finally reached the top that we were greeted by a carpeted oasis. There were fat booths and ample space between tables. Every wall surface was, inexplicably, reflective. “Window ok?” The host asked. I nodded ecstatically. My friend would smile politely.

The servers at this California Pizza Kitchen—and I believe all California Pizza Kitchens—wore a uniform of a button-down white shirt with a zany tie. Their name tags bore their first names and hometowns. Dale. Hollywood, FL.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Dale would ask, tossing branded coasters onto our table preemptively.

“They have free refills!” I would chime in.

When it came time to order, I took the reins: It was Spinach-Artichoke dip to start, extra chips. If we were feeling wild we’d add on a Field Green Salad with Candied Walnuts. The main course is where things got kooky. I’d order a Thai Chicken Pizza for myself and wait to hear what my guest ordered. If it was a good one, I’d offer a slice trade when the time was right. Dessert was an apple crisp that I believe was written with a “TM” beside it on the menu.

In our current era of bespoke menus and food-as-status, chain restaurants are definitively out. And sure, those CPK recipes were probably hatched in some faraway corporate headquarters and not the tattered Moleskine of a tortured chef. Still, these flavors felt like tickets to a faraway cul-de-sac where the distant sound of my mother’s voice called me home for supper, interrupting my twilight game of capture the flag.

As we exited, my friend would inevitably concede some version of “Okay, that was good,” and we’d pat our bellies with gratitude. All that was missing was the key fob we could click and the beep-beep of our car, unlocking as we approached it in the parking lot.

I don’t know that I’ll ever fulfill my fantasy of suburban living. It seems like my work will keep me in cities forever. If I ever want to truly escape, I’ll probably go rural. That 60th Street California Pizza Kitchen may be the closest I’ll ever get.