gleam wrote:The most unbelievably terrible pizza I have ever eaten, worse than any frozen pizza, worse even than airline pizza, was from:
Chubby's Pizza
1429 W 18th St
Chicago, IL 60608
(312) 829-5900
It is difficult for me to describe how unbelievably godawful this pizza was. From the half-melted flavorless mealy cheese; to the not-even-hormel-quality pepperoni; to the crust that Totino's would be ashamed to put out; this is the worst pizza I believe anyone will ever eat.
In the spirit of the World Series of Poker, which was held this past week here in Las Vegas...
OK, Gleam.
I see your Pukey Pilsen Pizza, and raise you...
Sonny's Pizza
2431 N Western
(773) 772-1092 (phone number included only in the spirit of thoroughness....not to call ahead for a pie, for Christ's sake)
Boldly advertising "Delicious Pizza by the Slice", Sonny's was patronized by me well before the minor culinary revitalization of the area around Fullerton and Western (well, at least before Honey1's appearance on the scene.) That pizza was so bad, so utterly devoid of any qualities one could even remotely ascribe to a foodstuff bearing its name, that I actually became enraged and needed a whiskey to calm down. This was right before my band was to play at Quencher's, so a whiskey was on the agenda anyway, but still... A crust resembling play-doh, ice crystals in the sauce and cheese (some processed American blend, by the way) and a watery tomato paste redolent of sugar and black pepper. The fact that someone was charging money for this abomination - actually preparing it and selling it - just flipped a switch deep inside me, forcing me to yell at the guy at the counter. As befit the whole ordeal, he let me finish telling him how crappy his food was, gave a shrug, and walked to the back, presumably to complete whatever Faustian transaction he had going on when I came in.
To answer the OP's question: Yea, verily, there is bad pizza in the Chicago area. Very bad. So bad that a Pizza Hut or Papa John's pizza placed next to it would be, by comparison, a D.O.C. Pizza Margherita from Da Michele in Naples. I've had some great pizza in Chicago (most recently at Spacca Napoli last week) some good pizza (Piece on a good day, various Italian bakeries -- D'Amato's, Masi, Sicilia, etc.., and Cafe Luigi, to name a few) a lot of mediocre pizza, and a few instances, such as the one above, in which my only possible response was unadulterated rage, leaving me no choice but to loudly castigate the pizza maker (I hesitate to use "pizzaiolo") and staff (if they, perchance, asked how I liked the pizza) for their crimes against good taste, for their insult to the good people of Naples. I would usually accompany the verbal outpouring with a dramatic gesture: in plain sight of the customers and employees, carefully (as though I were handling something unholy or evil) and calculatedly, the "pizza", whether a slice or whole pie, would be deposited in the garbage with one economical maneuver, a punctuation mark to signify the utter worthlessness of the establishment's efforts.
Lest any of you think me a bit prickish for acting thusly (whatever could give you that idea??), let me qualify: I would only let 'em have it in this manner if I were asked how I enjoyed the pizza. The most extreme example of this scenario (which I think I've written about before) occured at Robey's Pizza on Roscoe. I received my order (small pie with onions) took one bite, and, quickly realizing I had the culinary equivalent of Brundlefly in my mouth (ie, an unnatural, freakish creation deserving of a mercy killing) I began to gather my things and was all set to make a clean getaway (presumably to the nearest Maxwell St. Express or perhaps the couple of blocks to Scooter's on Belmont) and put this ugly experience behind me. The girl at the counter, though, just couldn't let sleeping Rabbis lie.
Girl: Did you want to wrap that up to take home?
Me: No thanks.
Girl: Umm... did you want something else?
Me: No thanks, I'm just going to leave. Bye, now.
Girl: I don't understand... you're not hungry? Are you waiting for someone?
Me: No... (????) Thanks, goodbye.
Girl: Well, tell me!! Was anything wrong??
Me: (sigh) Sweetheart, I could shit a better pizza than that.
I left immediately but not hurriedly after I said this, much in the same manner as Michael Corleone, who walks rather than runs out of the restaurant after shooting Sollozzo and Capt. McCluskey. This was the precise moment before there was any opportunity for the girl at the counter to respond, my (admittedly vulgar, but necessarily so) comment hanging, suspended in mid-air amidst a room full of mouths left agape (a response to my boldness, no doubt, tempered, perhaps, with a bit of admiration) and children on the brink of suppressed laughter, hands over mouths, no doubt due to my daring use of the "s" word in finishing the discourse between the counter girl and myself. Had this been a scene in a film, the pleasant background music would have come to an abrupt halt, accompanied by the classic "needle scratch across the surface of the record" effect.
Who was that masked asshole food snob??
Pizza is the kind of food that, even with inferior ingredients or less than ideal baking conditions, can be transformed into at least something passable or acceptable to eat. A modicum of care and/or creativity on behalf of the pizza chef is required. Which is why, when I order pizza and receive a truly awful product, I become angry. Such food indicates a total contempt for the customer and a lack of any soul or passion or connection to a craft by the restaurant or cook. I feel cheated, taken advantage of, and even dehumanized to a certain extent. Such establishments should be ashamed to even call their product pizza. Just as Cheez Wiz and Krispy Kreme and grape "drink" (as opposed to juice) distance themselves in name from the real thing, so too should places like Sonny's, Robey's and Chubby's be forced to label their food as "Peetsa" or "pizza-like byproduct" or use similar nomenclature in the interest of truth in advertising. For every Marie's, Vito and Nick's, Pat's, Old Chicago, Candlelite, or other establishment serving Chicago style pizza made with care and skill (even I, hardly a fan of Chicago thin crust, can easily tell the difference between the superior and inferior examples within this style) there are, unfortunately, many more establishments seemingly content to cut corners in every aspect of their pizza making, serving one interest only: the bottom line. It is a fundamental lack of pride in craftsmanship, a disconnect between production and consumer, which pervades the American service and manufacturing industries in general. Just as oil companies charge $3.00 and up for a gallon of gasoline (because they can get away with it), just as one cannot find a gallon of bleach (3 quarts, thank you very much) or a pound of coffee (13 ounces, sorry, buster...) anymore, so too will Domino's, Papa John's, Pizza Slut and their ilk use the crappiest flour, tomatoes, cheese and toppings they can find to still be able to legally call their product "pizza" and foist these gastronomical abortions upon unwitting and convenience-obsessed consumers everywhere. For the same reasons, perhaps, many independent pizza shops in Chicago (and elsewhere, of course, but we are talking about bad Chicago pizza here) feel they can compete with the big boys by going the cheap, careless route, and it shows -- every time someone buys a slice of glass-case, heat lamp "pizza" which, more often than not in my experience, is akin to sweet tomato paste on a doughy matzoh slathered in some sort of partially hydrogenated "cheeze food product." RSMbob, no offense, but if you say you had 8 or 10 examples of what you thought was good pizza from random places in the western suburbs or downtown, you must either have the luck of the collective Irish populace or a very low personal standard of what constitutes good pizza. When I lived in Logan Square, I must have ordered pizza from at least 15 pizzerias in my general part of the city before I found one I would order from again. And even then, this pizza was merely adequate (ie, a basic standard of fresh dough, real cheese, and a balanced tomato sauce). There are the few pizzerias who do Chicago thin crust well and then, frankly, there's the rest - mediocre at best and pretty bad most of the time. It only takes a trip to Spacca Napoli, Piece (when they feel like trying) or one of the neighborhood Italian bakeries to throw into sharp relief the yawning chasm that exists between good and bad pizza in Chicago.
Again, Bobby baby, you asked, so I feel like I should tell you. There is a lot of bad pizza in Chicago. There is some great pizza in Chicago. I will not eat a Domino's or Little Caesar or Pizza Slut or Papa John's pizza - their lone strategem, the reason for their success, lies in the brand name. That is, Papa John's pepperoni pizza in Rogers Park will be more or less identical to the pepperoni pizza from a Papa John's in Fresno, Sarasota, or Guadalajara. It's the safe choice, the consistent standard of mediocrity one may rely on far from home or around the corner, eliminating the anxiety and consumer doubt of trying something new or different. The sad part is that pizzerias in Chicago should be able to exploit this inherent blandness and mass-marketed pizza by using better ingredients, offering better service, and generally serving their neighborhoods and customers with more care, more soul, and better food. Instead, most have chosen to go the opposite way: use the cheapest shit they can find and charge the most they can get away with. If I'm faced with the decision between a random, neighborhood pizza joint in Chicago or a Pizza Hut, I am most sad to say I would invariably pick Pizza Hut. I've been burned far too many times, wasted too much money, and gotten angry for no reason thanks to inferior, crappy pizza in Chicago. At least with the big chains, the mild disappointment is a given and no further committment is required. In the cases of Naty's, Bacci, Tore's, Pisa, Big Tony's, Got Pizza, and dozens more local pizzerias, I expected better and got worse. I came away frustrated and hungry and looking for a torta milanesa.
"I know it was you, Chicago Pizza. You broke my heart."
Reb