I flew with an old friend to Chicago. We were weekend warriors going to a college football away game on Saturday, and we left from work directly to the airport for our Friday night flight. We didn’t check into our hotel until 10:30pm, and we were starving.
We knew most of the renowned Chicago pizza places stayed open late, so that’s where we headed to satisfy our appetites. Albeit in the overflow lot, we actually found parking at the pizza place of choice and headed in. We were directed to the basement dining room, which was okay with my friend because that’s where the bar was. I was driving.
He went to get a beer while I waited in line to check in at the podium and leave my name on the waitlist. The surrounding hallways and stairwells were abuzz, full of other hungry late-night people awaiting their turns at a table. At the podium, I was given a menu card and told to circle our meal orders. Since Chicago deep-dish pizzas take fifty minutes to cook, they would start creating your order while you were on the waitlist, synchronizing the arrival of your hot meal and your newly vacant table. It made perfect sense- I couldn’t imagine waiting an hour for a table and another hour to eat, and they would probably go broke by doing that, anyway.
I circled the following:
1 large pan pizza- pepperoni
1 large pan pizza- sausage, peppers, pepperoni, mushrooms
I had just found my friend and his beer when I heard my name called over the speaker system, asking me to return to the podium. The older woman I had given the menu card to was there, her eyes looking at me like I had no knowledge of anything in the universe.
“There are two of you, but you’ve ordered two larges.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Have you been here before? A large feeds 3-4 people. It says it right there on the menu. You guys should change your order.”
“No, we’ve been here, and other places, plenty of times. We know what we can eat.”
“Well, I’m afraid because we get lots of complaints from tourists after they see their pizzas, and I’m telling you two people can’t eat two larges. These are Chicago deep-dish.” She actually went on longer than that, but I will spare you.
“Well, we’re visitors, but we’re not strangers. That’s the order. I’ll even pay now if you want.”
Although she said this wasn’t necessary, her eyes said that we were idiots, and that she knew better.
She didn’t know better.
The next time they called my name, it was to be seated at our table. The basement room was a crowded but cozy affair. The tiny tables for two were all along one wall and literally four inches apart. You had to pull your table all the way out to sit the first person and then slide it back. The server came over for our drink orders, and while she was gone for that, the pizzas arrived.
The table certainly was sized for a large pizza that would feed 3-4, or better still, for a medium that would feed 2, because the two large pies barely fit. Okay, they didn’t fit. We placed them diagonally against each other, and wedged our drinks within the roundish spaces between the deep pans. The pizzas came up to the edges of the table right in front of us, and there was no room for plates.
We got to know our table neighbors very well, not only because we were placed elbow-to-elbow, but because there was lots of friendly conversation about our table situation. The server was a lot more cheery than the matron at the podium because all she had to comment about our feast was, “Wow, you guys are sure hungry!”
In the final tally, I had finished 3/4 of my large, and my friend finished 3/4 of his, plus an extra slice. (Truly amazing, even to jaded old me, because his 4 toppings must have accounted for another pound of ingredients!) The rest went back to the hotel room mini-fridge for leftovers.
Our neighbors and our server were all amazed. Amateurs.
Our team lost the football game, but we had a great weekend and went home with lots of road tales.
This was one of them.