In 1988, an early Julia Roberts romantic comedy called Mystic Pizza adorably ambled into
theaters, depicting an idyllic Connecticut community where all social strata are bridged by way
of a particularly memorable slice of pie. It’s the kind of film that features cornball montages of
pizza-making and dough-tossing, and isn’t terribly subtle about equating the romance of sharing
a pizza with our more basic, carnal impulses. In the bizarre world of this movie, an irresistible
pizza and an irresistible romantic partner are pretty much the exact same thing. Naturally, I’m a
big fan.
Although the film isn’t exceptional — as Julia Roberts flicks go, no one is confusing it with the
untouchable Steel Magnolias — it’s somehow successful in making its point: pizza (and Italian
food in general) is certainly one of our more romantic foodstuffs, and whether it’s due to the
frequent presence of wine on the table or the communal manner in which we eat it, the
sentiment is universal. As the song says, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie ...”
well, you likely know the rest.
It still begs the question, though: How does the theory presented in Mystic Pizza — basically,
that you’ll find love sooner by sharing a big pizza pie than, say, a plate of chicken wings — hold
up on closer examination?
I’ve spent the bulk of my adult life trying to answer this very question. A dozen summers ago, I
took a seasonal job in the coastal Oregon enclave of Cannon Beach, working the line at a place
called Pizza a’Fetta. The pizza shop was famous in those parts for being touted by Pizza Today
magazine (Look it up, it’s real!) as one of America’s 50 best pizzerias, which made it both
popular as a date spot and a must-stop for tourists. And, if I’m being totally honest, my status as
a cook at Pizza a’Fetta did a fine job of endearing me to the fairer sex as well; some women dig
a guy with dirt under his nails, sure, but a curious subset prefers one with flour in his eyelashes.
My wife, bless her, belongs to this curious subset, and in the early stages of our courtship, I
used my pizza-making skills to full effect. One of our earliest dates involved my from-scratch
pizza — homemade dough, homemade sauce, nearly immolated apartment — and she knew she
was special. So special, in fact, that she was willing to overlook the fact that every first date,
from the time I left Pizza a’Fetta until the fateful evening when my future-wife and I ate a
basil-and-goat-cheese concoction on the floor of my efficiency domicile, began in the exact
same way.
This all goes back to Mystic Pizza, and to what makes the basic combination of dough, sauce
and toppings so transcendent. When a group shares a pizza — and we’re ignoring the sacrilege
known as the “half-and-half,” thank you very much — they are willfully trying things that they
might not always order for themselves. Perhaps my favorite part of the job at Pizza a’Fetta,
apart from having the scenery from Goonies thirty seconds from the front door, was watching
two people debate a pizza with ingredients such as crab, artichokes or clams, and then shoot
each other an “I-will-if-you-will” glance. It’s the comestible equivalent of going on a treasure
hunt.
Perhaps we’re being overly sanctimonious about the power of pizza, or maybe I’m just writing
this on an empty stomach. But there’s a very real possibility that, if not for a particularly
instructive Julia Roberts film, I might have never become a pizza chef, which would mean that I
would have never snared my wife. I'm a pretty happy guy, and pizza is largely to thank.
When was the last time anyone said that about a plate of chicken wings?
January 2017
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