Thursday, June 14, 2018

Teeming impermanent pizzasystems of pizza

Mama Lucia
Alfeo’s La Pizzeria
Mondawmin Mall

In the previous review, Pizza Club advanced a Strident Theory about the function of nostalgia in landscapes of pizza enjoyment. Feeling spiritually depleted by our own righteousness, we fled the slick post-historical nihilism of Remington’s curated foodcourt and went to the mall. Advocates of authentic urban lifestyles tend to deride the mall as a hollow simulacrum of town-square-plus-Parisian-arcade, and celebrate the death of so many suburban malls as sign of improved moral hygiene. Now that we’ve been to R-house, however, we feel that those who live in hollow simulacra should not cast stones. Moreover, Baltimore City is a contender for the birthplace of the modern mall, by way of an urban shopping center whose designer once claimed it was “built for the pedestrian, not the automobile.” Our collective pop culture memory of the mall and what it signifies doesn’t encompass its multiple conflicting lives, nor its possibilities. Here’s Rem Koolhaas admonishing us to “break out of the windless present of the postmodern back into real historical time, and a history made by human beings.” Let us do so on the wings of mall pizza.

The mall c. 1958

Same mall, new cladding

Opened in 1956, Baltimore’s Mondawmin Mall is among the earliest examples of the retail development formula that would define shopping for the rest of the 20th century: at anchor in a sea of parking, facing inward towards a burbling fountain and gestural town square, the American main street folded in on itself. It was enclosed and upgraded in the 60s with escalators, air conditioning, and palm trees to conjure that weightless, weather-less realm, the space station or biodome. Even in the pre-digital era, the mall anticipated virtual reality as a fantastical place of refuge when the earth and human bodies are no longer viable, but business must go on – a Cold War origin for today’s dematerialized worlds of online accumulation.


Retro malls may look charming in old photos; they also look a lot like space-age escape pods for white people fleeing to the suburbs. Mondawmin was a prototype for these pods, but also an exception to their logic: located amid historic rowhouses three miles from downtown, it served city residents with retail, a grocery store, a post office, and community meeting space. Aggressive blockbusting had already flipped the surrounding neighborhoods from white to black by the mid-1950s. "We expected to cater to colored patrons of the area when we built it," said mall manager Jerome McDermott in 1958. He spoke to a reporter from the Afro-American newspaper as activists picketed the aptly-named White Coffee Pot, the only Mondawmin tenant that refused to serve black customers. The Coffee Pot, hiding behind “company policy” in the midst of a thriving integrated shopping center, became a focal point for civil rights sit-ins until the city passed an ordinance banning segregated public accommodations in 1962.

The Baltimore Afro-American, Sept. 27, 1958
The Rouse Company, the mall’s master planners, grafted their modernist vision onto a town plagued by systemic racism and about to enter an economic freefall that no developer could remedy. Jim Rouse moved on to Cherry Hill, NJ and Columbia, Maryland, seeking a less history-encrusted canvas for his utopian aims. In northwest Baltimore, white and middle-class flight continued and competing malls opened in the suburbs, making an unspoken appeal to white shoppers' racist anxieties. After Sears migrated to Security Square Mall, the suburban frontier circa 1973, Mondawmin survived for decades without an anchor store. It received sporadic attention from various management companies, but mostly drew energy from its own local sphere, boosted by the construction of a Metro station in 1983 that made it a major transit hub. Today, occupancy is once again high – in addition to national brands, many tenants are small chains or independent businesses. With the decline of the Howard St., Pennsylvania Avenue, and Gay Street retail corridors, the mall is one of the most accessible places to buy stuff in the city. Also to get a slice of pizza, which Pizza Club does with some regularity.

Subjective data from our long-ago mall Pizza Club meeting is here combined with more recent memories and impressions. Pizza Club finds the pizzaspaces of Mondawmin to be inviting and robust, though we’d like to see more public seating. Mondawmin evolved out of the strip mall, whose restaurants run their own dining rooms, thus it lacks that signature of 1980s and 90s suburban malls, the food court. However, customers today purchase food from multiple different vendors, and vendors now sell from outward-facing counters or kiosks. Thus, food-court-style seating would be a welcome adaptation to the times. We get the sense that mall managers view this kind of hanging out as a security concern. However, we believe that the premise of the millennial food hall, which charges a hefty premium for the experience of sitting in a “communal” space that evokes customers’ childhood mall nostalgia, should apply in the actual mall as well.


Pizza outlets are among the few places in the mall where one can repose, and are utilized for this purpose throughout the day. On the second level, the well-established Mama Lucia presides over a space generously fitted with padded booths and the marble faux-finishing of a Renaissance palazzo. Their pizza descends from the same permutation of New York style that produced Sbarro's – that is to say, classic Mall Pizza – with exotic, topping-laden options that fortify a single enormous slice into a whole meal. The plain cheese pie, though, reveals impoverished building blocks: crust a bit soggy and floppy, not quite risen in the middle; “a lesser mozzarella”; salt permeating all. Deviating from the New York norm, Mama Lucia’s dough seems to utilize butter to obtain a rich pastry-like texture that further contributes to its stomach-filling qualities, and a general atmosphere of pizza opulence befitting the mall’s theater of consumer bounty. “It's making my stomach hurt," said Kate. We ordered a Sicilian slice, and regretted it, like one regrets “the nub of an eggplant parm sandwich after the eggplant is gone.”

Mama Lucia, plain and Sicilian
Downstairs, the newcomer Alfeo's La Pizzeria occupies a less ornate space, generically suited for any fast food operation, yet also cocooning the patron in cavernous depths away from the corridors of commerce. The contrasting pastel color scheme, fluorescent lights, and slatted benches cause the surfaces to oscillate in a hypnotizing manner. 




We found their crust to be crunchier, with a cracker-like bottom, and with a lighter more delicate crumb. Indeed, the tenderness of the crust, so unexpected in a realm of hard edges, was quite supurb. No misbegotten efforts at rustic leopard spots, just an even lightly-browned finish. The cheese was standard bodega blend; the parmesan shaker is there to be used. Pizza Club obtained cheese, sausage-pepperoni, and olive-and-green pepper slices. These toppings were not necessarily worth bothering with; the significance of Alfeo’s is that they have a good mastery of their oven, producing concentric rings of crust, sauce, and cheese, properly browned and bubbly, with slight border caramelization, and you can get this at the mall. The specialty pies, though not as baroque as Mama Lucia’s, offer meals of various genres (taco, cheesesteak, spaghetti) chopped up and heaped on a pizza. We note that both mall pizza parlors are amply-staffed to feed lunch crowds in a timely manner.

Alfeo's. Pictured: toppings
Decent by-the-slice pizza is rare in Baltimore, only possible in places like Mondawmin where the crossing paths of shoppers, commuters, workers, and local residents assure a continuous churn of fresh pies. The front counter of Alfeo's faces the mall's original centerpiece, a spiral staircase arcing down from the second level, suspended above a round tiled fountain. A 2004 renovation demolished the narrow floating catwalk that extended over the fountain from the base of the stairs, replacing it with a wedge-shaped platform draped over the water like a lopsided pizza slice. Though probably an abomination against modernist architecture, the new design makes the space appear inviting and communal. Yet the platform opens on to nothing – no tables and chairs to follow through on the welcoming gesture. People sit on the rim of the fountain, on top of the inscribed warnings, “Please do not sit.” 

The future is floating stairs
The formless proliferates, the formal withers," observes Rem Koolhaas, mourning the obsolescence of the Rousian God-like planner, in whose absence fanciful cladding, spandrels, and space frames proliferate with no “rules, regulations, [or] recourse”. Pizza Club is inclined to say, “good riddance, give us the mutant, hybrid, ungovernable rhizome”; we’re not crying over spilt modernism at the mall. However, underpinning Koolhaas’s aesthetic complaint lie the “promiscuous and oppressive” imperatives of capitalism that run rampant without a benevolent planner to keep them in check -- imperatives which generate little enduring local value and leave a trail of waste and exploitation. Observe mall management trying to minimize the “risk” that the presence of human bodies entails, moving them through as quickly as possible while still capturing their dollars, dredging fleetingly-tossed pennies out of the fountain.

No the future is this wedge
The mall is a hybrid form, with contradictory values ascribed to it by communities, developers, and corporations. Many have suggested it as a model organism for Western-style capitalist democracy. “In the end," writes photographer Sze Tsung Leong,"there will be little else for us to do but shop,” suggesting that our pretenses of participatory self-governance inevitably crumble into the gravitational field of global capital.

Many Baltimoreans celebrate the longevity of Mondawmin Mall and its status as one of the most profitable malls in the country. We are proud to be good citizens of the urban market while suburban locations find themselves on deadmalls.com. Yet despite our exemplary patterns of consumption and generous taxpayer-funded corporate subsidies, we have no actual vote in the republic of shopping, nor do its rulers owe us any transparency. Target, the mall's anchor store since 2008, pulled out last year with no explanation, leaving residents who relied on the chain for essential household items to infer that its location in a black, low income neighborhood somehow outweighed its reliably high sales. At least the community could protest the White Coffee Pot's overt segregation in the 1950s; Target, unable to pick and choose its clientele, fled in the middle of the night.

Mondawmin’s ability to thrive with or without a major anchor will be a boon to the portfolio of Brookfield Property Partners, a global commercial management firm that purchased mall operator General Growth Properties in March. Perhaps the new management will anoint the abandoned Target, and the rest of the mallscape, with Koolhaas's litany of "re-'s": "restore, rearrange, reassemble, revamp, renovate, revise, recover, redesign,” return on investment. Perhaps they’ll want to “transcend” the mall’s association with the 2015 uprising, which began with police cordoning students in the parking lot as they tried to commute home from school. While creating a glossy simulacrum might be better for PR, such erasure isn’t possible here; people don’t forget. Mondawmin has an actual history, not as a sealed escape pod but as a permeable node in the city’s fabric, and that’s what has kept it alive.

If the mall is a space for the modest exercise of the only freedom that remains to us -- shopping -- at least it has good pizza. However, Pizza Club believes there are other things we can do in the end, to prevent the end or to hasten it, as your preferences dictate. Politics, conflict, and memory are antithetical to shopping, yet paradoxically built into the mall. In the case of the White Coffee Pot, Maryland’s supreme court ruled that the Mondawmin plaza was a free-speech zone where “property rights must give way to human and Constitutional rights,” and activists slowly worked through the existing system to end legal segregation. Alternately, there was that time someone rammed their truck into the side of the building and made off with an entire ATM. Pizza Club doesn’t want to debate you about whether robbing a bank is political, but we recall a recent subprime mortgage crisis when that bank scorched our neighborhood without facing any consequences. We hope someone handed the driver a slice of pizza as he peeled away.


Mama Lucia: ⅜ slices
Alfeo’s La Pizzeria: ⅝ slices


Mall architectural history courtesy of Jackson Gilman-Forlini
Photographs by Graham Coreil-Allen


Tuesday, March 13, 2018

While the pile of crust grows skyward

Molina Pizza (R-House, 301 W. 29th St., Baltimore MD)


The proposition that anything good will ever come of humanity is increasingly in doubt as far as Pizza Club can see. At a distant point in the past people constructed systems of morals, perhaps only as elaborate edifices for power and domination, and history is a long catastrophe in which we constantly fail to uphold these loophole-riddled doctrines except when they serve to oppress the weak and extort wealth. Speaking of elaborate edifices for power and domination, a few months ago (maybe up to a year ago, time is meaningless) Pizza Club visited the R-House in Remington.

The R-House is a carefully-curated reimagining of a mall foodcourt, set in a reclaimed auto body shop. In the late twentieth century, teenagers needed cars to get to the mall. The mall was a place where many people in the coveted Millennial demographic first experienced a consumerist simulacrum of an urban town square. The town square was a gathering-place where one engaged in shared discourse with friends and strangers under terms of mutual respect as part of a pluralistic social fabric. It’s also where deviants were executed by hanging, and witches burned at the stake.

We were prepared for the pizza at R-House to be very good. We understand that everything about the R-House is wholesome and responsibly-sourced, returning millennials to a comforting and functional dining format without denting their self-image as food connoisseurs.
 

Pizza Club worries a lot about nostalgia: is it a toxic feeling that keeps us from recognizing the truths of the past and the urgency of action in the present? It can keep us in thrall to a myth of the familiar, familiar as in familial, family, the magic circle of capitalist atomization dividing 'us' from 'them'. It's an interesting time for nostalgia, as city-dwelling Millennials begin having babies and moving (back) to the suburbs. Development projects targeted at this demographic are actively erasing the urban-suburban distinction by creating suburban shopping centers in the city and dense pseudo-urban tracts in the suburbs. This smooths over many aspects of city life that might be unattractive to former suburbanites used to a certain level of homogeneity and convenience, while lessening the friction of ultimately returning to a suburb – both settings offer basically identical condo-plus-retail-and-parking-garage complexes, a smog of familiarity that spreads across the landscape.

Pizza Club appreciates that a gathering space such as R-House is genuinely useful, flexible, and welcoming for many. Though its spirit animal is the “indebted freelance millennial coffee connoisseur on a bicycle who craves community and authenticity,” people from all over the city will use this space for their own purposes of hanging out, and that is great. It has an awesome area for kids to run free and play with giant padded blocks. It makes your life easier and probably helps the environment because you can stay in one place instead of driving around to various scattered small businesses. In 1952, real estate developer James Rouse had a similar idea for how to modernize urban consumption. It was called the Mondawmin Mall. In 1763, the city of Baltimore had a similar idea for gathering farmers and merchants together for better consumer access. They built public markets. Interestingly, these precursors sold things that you took home with you, in the case of public markets, providing fresh produce to most city residents; the millennial food hall sells a transient experience of food.

When it first opened, R-House suffered from a significant food-court oversight: amid expensive coffee, fried chicken, and ice cream, there was no expensive pizza. The Seawall Development Company and Urban Pastoral Collective, a “next generation, boutique Development Firm” that seems to curate the various R-House vendors, set out to fill the void this past summer by creating Molina.

Here we come to a sore point in the pizza discourse which R-House unintentionally jabbed with their release of a highly-produced promotional video offering a fictionalized backstory for Molina. The video features wind blowing through fields of wheat and basil in the Old Country as a lovely young woman tells her family’s story of living off the land and baking bread according to the Old Ways. Then American soldiers arrived for the Great War and the cheerful Italians served them irresistible focaccia. Our protagonist fell in love with a GI and came to the New World bearing the gift of pizza. Pizza Club is not questioning anyone’s personal family history, nor do we have any interest in policing the historical narrative about the origins of pizza in the United States. However, as an objective gloss of the Pizza Club community’s audience response, I will say that many found this video confusing.

A sophisticated consulting firm created a pizza counter to go in the food court they designed. That’s fine and makes perfect sense. Why play the authenticity game in this postmodern moment when everything is a hologram of a pastiche conjured out of the amnesiac miasma of the internet? Perhaps the name of the consulting firm, “Urban Pastoral”, suggests an answer – the backward-looking pastoral genre, melded with the millennial love of the urban and sustainability, has conjured this disjointed gesture of nostalgia for a distant past that screens a more immediate nostalgia for our own childhood malls, advertisements for Prego pasta sauce, and belonging, if only for an hour, to the Italian-immigrant family at Olive Garden, which always seemed a lot friendlier than my actual Italian immigrant family.

We must set this unfortunate video aside. We regret ever watching it and will now put it out of our minds.Think about the first vs. the second belltower scene in Vertigo. Think about anything else.

Given the high standards of the R-House, Pizza Club was ready to take its shrill Marxist critique/bitter class resentment and wad that critique/resentment into a tiny ball and cram that ball into an $8 waffle cone of premium Old Bay-flavored icecream and then shove that icecream into a planter full of succulents and walk away from it. We cleansed our souls of anger and opened our hearts to gracefully accept that food from food halls tastes good.

We’d already played out the script in our heads: people are correct to Uber here from Canton and wait in a 40-minute line for pizza because these rugged young men in flannel shirts are doing a brilliant job crafting a high-quality product that stands alongside other distinguished Baltimore pizza offerings while adding something new and intriguing to the mix.



Cheese pizza
However, this was not the case. Many Pizza Club members described their Molina experience as “uncanny” – as Ben put it, “too close to real, but not quite.” What we ate “didn’t read as pizza,” said Mark. The ingredients “don’t marry, it feels disconnected.” Small bits of toppings are lost on a vast, dry crust, which is rather like an under-dressed flatbread (about six years ago, in a smokey backroom, flatbreads were quietly re-named “Neapolitan pizza”?). The crust was leavened and cooked correctly, fluffy on top and crunchy on the bottom, Todd observed, but “the taste… I don’t know. It’s like pizza.” Conversely, Mark noted, “It’s not like pizza. This is so strange.”

“It feels very anonymous,” Stacie remarked. We got a couple of dry, plain-ish cheese pies, and one with numerous toppings, including superficial traces of pesto, red onions, and cauliflower, that Ben described as “dazzle camouflage on a battleship.” 


Dazzle camouflage pizza

The logistics of Molina had yet to be worked out at that early point. Most of our pies were cold because no one had called out our order while we sat ten feet away for half an hour. An attempt to sample their pizza more recently ended in failure because it was “half-price night”. We stood in a line, but the stall did not appear to be taking orders because they were frantically filling previous orders from people who reported that they’d been waiting for forty minutes. This level of demand suggests that Molina will have no problem selling pizza within a crowded food court, but may need to staff up if they intend to offer deals. In a final, cheap-ass attempt at critical objectivity, Pizza Club mooched half a slice off a friend a few weeks ago. Because Pizza Club was hungry and drunk, we did not obtain usable results from this sample. Therefore, we acknowledge that Molina may have made significant advances in its pizza-craft that we are unaware of.

In addition to the origin story recounted in their promotional video, Molina also claims the distinction of making the only “New Haven style” pizza in town. The layering of Old and New World identities is certainly something that Pizza Club can get behind, but we just want to know why. Is anyone from New Haven? Is that where the lady in the video began her new life in America? Members of Pizza Club familiar with the New Haven style describe it as charred and chewy, often including clams, but did not see a strong kinship with the pizza at Molina.

Molina promised to add to Baltimore’s pizza scene with a by-the-slice option, which is certainly lacking in the premium pizza market. Ben noted that “a slice of this pizza is the single cheapest food entree you can get at R-House.” This makes it an adaptive choice if you’ve been pressured to meet friends there, need food, but for whatever reason do not want to purchase a $14 sandwich. However, this type of pizza is ephemeral in nature; there’s a reason that Neapolitan places only serve pies fresh out of the oven. It doesn’t lend itself to re-heating, as the crust becomes brittle and the interior sponges up what little moisture was sitting on top. The New York slice, with its viscous cheese blanket, is infinitely more forgiving.

They have, as promised, obtained fine ingredients, including “legit” prosciutto, nice cheese, and fresh herbs. For sauce, they utilize what Ben terms “that weird spare acidic tomato situation,” associated with the idea of “freshness” but adding little flavor. These ingredients are used very sparingly, such that a basic cheese pie with basil featured two basil leaves, four dollops of cheese, and a lot of crust that nobody ate. Every pie had a lot of crust that nobody ate. We were buried in the accumulated crusts of half-remembered pseudo-histories.


Crusts of forgotten ancestors
Why do we care about pizza at this point? Would it be better not to perceive that anything is wrong, to accept the machinations of capitalism that determine our lives and choices and just feel good that we can technically pay for an $18 pizza which leaves us hungry? Why is it ok that the pleasure of spending money irresponsibly is the only pleasure that our society condones? Why are we blanketing the landscape with pastoralized monuments to a memory of the mall food court? Molina’s pizza tastes like the failure of nostalgia, the impossibility of returning to something “better” that wasn’t very good or that someone else imagined for us. We’re stranded in the present, there is no going back.

The almighty purse
This is just a story about a place filled with items which some people can buy and other people can’t, which some people enjoy and others do not enjoy. Obviously any commercial site could have a similar story. In the case of Molina, the material substrate of their pizza is really not worth putting into your body if you have alternatives. If you’ve already committed to spending time at R-House and you need a flat food made of bread, Molina’s pizza won’t hurt you. It may cause you to feel full yet hollow. Children in the play area may be stacking pizza crusts into fortresses, knocking over the fortresses, and building them again. You may briefly feel dizzy as the pile of debris before you grows skyward.
5.5/8 slices


Monday, October 17, 2016

Making Things Pizza

Paulie Gee's Hampden
3535 Chestnut Ave.
Baltimore MD


In a perverse way, Pizza Club is grateful for the logistical complications that stalled the opening of Paulie Gee's Hampden for lo these past three years. The resistance of the smoke-encrusted old Republican Club building, which had to be stripped down to the bricks, helped us reflect on our own knee-jerk feelings of resistance to the new and trendy. In the interval between proprietor Kelly Beckham's announcement that he would open a branch of the pioneering Brooklyn craft-pizzeria in Baltimore and the unveiling of said local branch, we walked past the building for weeks and months, watching it slowly metamorphose.

The passage of time mellowed our suspicions of parachute Brooklyn imperialism; Beckham was committed to his colleagues in the local pizza scene and to his Hampden location. Most neighbors we queried were unfamiliar with the Brooklyn Paulie Gee's and its status as a darling of national pizza tastemakers. The Baltimore location would have to stand on its merits; the whole trend that it embodied had already spread locally with venues like Verde and Hersch's working in the same vein of finely-crafted high-end Neapolitan pies in a casual-but-classy setting. When we finally walked through the glass doors into the high-ceilinged dining room of Paulie Gee's Hampden, we were simply curious to taste their pizza.


The pizza, however, is not entirely the point. I mean, it is – this is a business where workers devote their time to optimizing the number of charred spots on a round slab of dough. There's like a 90% chance that you'll eat a pie complying with the most stringent metrics of quality. But the underlying ethos of Paulie Gee's Hampden seems to center on process, experimentation, and technical mastery, an ethos very connected to PG's humble roots in deep pizza-nerd culture.

Indeed, pizzas are complex interactions between humans, objects, and physical laws. In a fast-food setting, the process is automated and black-boxed to maximize efficiency and consistency. In a high-end setting, the process is fetishized as the artistry of a “chef” who has total creative control. Neither of these is correct; neither invisible systems nor Great Men determine pizza's fate. Many contemporary theorists suggest that things are running the show.


With its cooking area fully-exposed in the center of the space, Paulie Gee's declares the networked nature of the human and non-human. The ovens have individual names and dispositions; people maneuver with and around these infernal agents, discovering their dynamic properties. Inches, degrees, and seconds execute powerful entanglements. A fickle mixture of flour, water, and bacteria sets the entire agenda.

Granted, this is the start-up phase of PG's operation, so everyone is focused on learning how to use new tools, combine ingredients, and run a restaurant. But the spiritual essence of the place is also being formed, and at its core is a characteristically American paradox. We want the authenticity of time-honored Old World traditions – ovens hand-built by Neapolitan craftsmen, meat slices that taste like pepperoni but have fancy Italian names so you know they're legit. At the same time, we're obsessed with innovation, optimization, and novelty. You can actually taste this paradox in Paulie Gee's pizza. Cognitive dissonance tastes really, really good sometimes, but its weird moments are a reminder that we're all adrift on the same greasy flow of global capital, grasping at signifiers of authenticity.


The menu itself is testimony to Paulie Gee's postmodern condition. Each pie is named with a goofy wordplay, often on a pop culture reference, concocted to make people on dates feel foolish when they order. However, beneath the celebrity puns we find perplexities. “The toppings seem random,” Kate said of their specialty pies. Mike concurred, “these descriptions aren't grabbing me. It all sounds the same.” Another Mike added, “there are lots of different kinds of pizza but not a lot of variety. If you're gonna have all these options they should be distinctive.” PG's is assertive about not doing gluten-free crust until they develop a recipe that meets their standards of excellence. They do, however, offer a strong slate of vegan pies with house-made cheese and meat replacements. At one point, we mistook the vegan sausage for real sausage.

Over the course of a marathon 4-hour pizzafest, Pizza Club got to sample a wide range of pies (and we tried making some ourselves, with mixed success). PG's workers were friendly and accommodating of our shambling party, and we were in very good hands hospitality-wise. The baseline, a cheese pizza (dubbed the “Regina”) featured pure and strong flavors, a sauce made only of crushed tomatoes under a perfect lacing of mozzarella and basil leaves. PG's Neapolitan stylings function optimally under these simple conditions: the crust has crunch, the moisture balance is good. 


As we ventured deeper into the specialty realm, things got soggier – an arugula-topped pie was “a little watery, but very light and fresh.” More maximal options, like the “In Ricotta da Vegan” with house-made cashew ricotta and vegan sausage, were laden down with their topping bounty. These are delicious, high-quality toppings; more is always better in America, but they strain the traditional delicacy of the crust.

PG's deploys an array of flavor-infused oils and reductions to add complexity to their pies, equivalent to what their down-market competition calls “afterbakes”. One Pizza Club member coined the term “post-oven philosophy” for this trend. At PG's “Mike's Hot Honey” is a mainstay, a spin-off product from the original Brooklyn restaurant. Pizza Club enjoyed how this honey layers sweetness and heat on top of salty mozzarella and tangy sauce, but some felt that it was overkill and certain pies became cloyingly sweet.


To highlight hand-made ingredients from other local establishments, PG's was offering a Blue Pit Brisket (BPB) pie. This proved controversial in our group. Some declared it an abomination against pizza (“Nothing is ok about this”), while others loved its “balance of sweet, smokey, and bitter” flavors. The individual toppings were “all good...but the sweetness [of BBQ sauce] is overpowering. I'd rather just eat brisket,” said one Pizza Club member. A fan of the pie deemed it “nice synergy, something that can only happen here. Well done!”

We recognized the BPB as a novelty pie, meant to jazz up the menu and cure pizza fatigue by smashing together two beloved food genres. Which is fine – that's a thing all pizza places do (see: taco pizza, Philly cheesesteak pizza, mac and cheese pizza) and it doesn't have to be a masterpiece for the ages. But given the great abundance of Baltimore food-makers who pickle, smoke, jam, and ferment, we'd hope for more considered use of local ingredients. “They get the kind of nice things people are into – honey, mezcal, balsamic infusions – but not how to combine them,” said one Pizza Club member; Mike concurred, “they have the nice tools, the nice techniques, the nice ingredients, but not the nice touch.” Faced with infinite possibilities, it kind of feels like PG's is systematically trying out every permutation, which worked for Paul Ehrlich.


We attest that at Paulie Gee's Hampden the practice of Neapolitan pizza-making is being pursued at a high level of technical proficiency. The crust is thin, crisp, and delicate, pillowing out around the edges and characteristically spotted. Some felt that the leopard spotting made their slices taste burned, but natural variation is part of the deal with this style, and if you don't like oven-char, Neapolitan might not be for you. Conceptually, Paulie Gee's is like very serious cosplay: an enthusiastic, obsessive, sometimes-artless appropriation of a thing that it recognizes it did not create and does not own. For Paulie Gee the man, pizza was an elective affinity cultivated through the internet. As in cosplay, there's a sheer joy that comes with giving this affinity concrete form, enmeshing it within the world of vital materials.

In short: the cost of PG's craftsmanship runs from $8 to $18 for a specialty pizza that feeds two moderately-hungry people. There is variability from pie to pie, both in terms of how they're cooked and the success of the ingredient combinations. These variations will fall below the noticeability threshold for most patrons, who will find a similar experience to other local mainstays of Neapolitan style. Pizza lovers who pay special attention will have the unique pleasure of participating in a living experiment. “In 20 years,” said Mark, “they might have the perfect pizza. Or maybe 2 years, who knows. It's kind of exciting because you can watch their craft grow. It's very ambitious.” Paulie Gee's offerings may not cohere into a culinary vision, but that's because its model favors process, enthusiasm, and technique over authorship, a practice-based approach to pizza and networked modernity.

6.5/8 slices

Photo credits: Graham

Monday, June 6, 2016

Pizza Royale

Piezzetta
Horseshoe Casino Baltimore
Russell St.


It's great having a casino right here in Baltimore City. The casino's job is to create an atmosphere of luxury and excess that motivates you to spend money -- and moreover, makes you believe that you can win money from a system carefully engineered to take what you don't even have. For just one night, you can pretend you're the Mayor of Baltimore attending a real-estate developer convention in Las Vegas.


But this isn't Vegas. Baltimore isn't super committed to maintaining any illusions. Watch the Horseshoe Casino try: they put the set of Dynasty in a big box and dropped it from the sky onto the bank of the Patapsco, where it's surrounded by giant billboards for its suburban competitor, the Maryland Live! casino in Arundel Mills. The billboards urge motorists groping towards the Horseshoe's chaotic left-turn lane to just "keep driving". The Horseshoe's vast parking garage is an inclined highway; ascending its majestic heights, you can gaze down upon the self-storage center on one side and the city incinerator on the other. One of the first people who spoke to us was a guy asking for spare change or something to eat, bringing to mind the extensive homeless encampment displaced from the nearby woods by the casino's construction.

A sporting effort has been made to create an opulent interior, with elaborate multi-tiered light fixtures, custom-milled mahogany trim, and gilded drop-ceiling. This is a 24-hour entertainment destination for young, hip partiers, with local beers on tap and a live-music stage for millennials who prefer varied stimuli over the tunnel-vision of slots.

However, the floor plan tells. A small area for table games front-and-center at the entrance evokes the idea of a casino in old movies where well-dressed people drink fancy cocktails and engage in libidinous/criminal intrigue; beyond, a blinking ocean of slot machines opens out on all sides. This scene is just not sexy, but it's not the Horseshoe's doing. The industry seems pretty centered on slots, to the point where they give away free soda to keep people awake and pressing a button instead of free booze to loosen up their poker game.


Pizza Club's destination was the casual dining area of the Horseshoe, a pseudo-vernacular historic main street with hand-painted signs in distressed lettering, containing Guy Fieri's Kitchen + Bar, Lenny's Deli, and Piezzetta, a fast-casual pizza establishment. Restaurateurs created this pizza concept exclusively for the Horseshoe, though they plan to add more locations in answer to the nation's inexhaustible need for alternatives to Chipotle. Surely they will succeed at selling lots of pizza from within other stucco rectangles surrounded by ample parking and Disneyland evocations of the urban streetscape.  But the essence of Piezzetta's pizza is so casino-specific that it really should be experienced within the Horseshoe.


What we found inside Piezzeta's quaint brick exterior was a sleekly engineered workflow of custom order assembly. The pies are around 12 inches in diameter, awkwardly too large for one person but not enough for two. For $14 you can cover a standard crust with infinite toppings, or select a prefab specialty pie. Much like the casino itself, a facade of enjoyment gave way to a utilitarian exchange of money for the satisfaction of an addictive drive. 



Kate appreciated that Piezzetta, unlike its local competitors in the fast-causal pizza business, "isn't pretending. It's like, we're a fast food place in the casino but you can have some decent pizza. Pizza Studio is all like, 'we're your loving artisanal pizza artists'." A few humane touches, like a hanging roll of butcher paper with hand-lettered lunch specials, seemed advised by a consultant and were dwarfed by at least four huge flat-screens bearing the actual menu.


The special pies were kind of decorative and not really thought out. Ben enjoyed a "Pineapple + Pig" pizza but found it "wet..self-destructing, must be scarfed or abandoned." Similarly, Mike observed that "the wetness of the pizza encourages gulping it down quickly." A pesto and artichoke pizza left Kate "mad that I paid $13.99 for this. It's really oily and tastes like a drawing of pesto." (The pesto sauce in general was not recommended). The "Meat lover's", a giant pile of meat, was "meaty, greasy, decent, but undistinguished."


Instead, we recommend whatever impulsive combination of toppings you happen to point to when they take your order. Those who adopted this approach were overall much happier. "I like mine because it's exactly what I've always wanted in a pizza," Sophie explained. Piezzetta has their fast-casual game down to a science: individual toppings are fresh, of a high quality, and there's a lot of them. Everyone was excited about the "after-bake" options, a variety of flavored glazes and reductions. The availability of whole wheat and gluten-free crust also appealed to the health-conscious. In three minutes or less, raw pies run through a heat-blasting conveyor-belt oven cleverly decorated with fake doors to look like a traditional pizza oven.


The crust had a subtle, rich flavor, which many enjoyed. Piezzetta's dough recipe seems optimized for the assembly-line rapid bake process, so it doesn't bubble and crisp around the edges like a normal pizza crust would. Increased fat content, perhaps olive oil or butter, combines with decreased yeast activity to produce a crust that fades to soggy nothingness in the middle.

Glancing around a table of Piezzetta diners, Pizza Club observed rivers of grease running down everyone's hands and wrists. All the pies were literally sopping with oil. We don't know where it came from. It flowed through cardboard trays and plates and napkins like credit through a slot machine, but the grease was very real and would have made it difficult to operate any kind of touch-screen game while eating. Sophie made the best of it: "I've stopped trying to wipe the olive oil off my hands and now I'm rubbing it in and feeling super moisturized." Indeed, such luxuriant use of olive oil, a valuable commodity prized by the wealthy of ancient Greece and Rome and burnt as an offering to the Old Testament God, is not just a passive response to the generalized American craving for salt and fat, but an active ingredient in the potent consumer psychology of a casino. We felt satiated after the heavy oil injection, like no one was holding back on anything and we shouldn't either. "This place will find a way to give you what you want," said Ben, in relation to the pizza but also the casino generally.


We tried to play the slots but they're not wasting time on dilettantes like us. You can't actually put coins from your pocket into a machine to gamble -- you have to give it your credit card, entering a plane of frictionless, indefinite flow. The minimum bet for table games is around 25 bucks. Maybe we didn't eat enough pizza to rise to that plane, or maybe we ate too much and got bogged down by the aftermath of greasy unease. Back on the roof of the parking garage, we brooded on how the Horseshoe makes subtle contextual reference to the two nearby landmarks as a self-storage unit for humans and an incinerator for the funds that may or may not exist on their credit cards.


4.5/8 slices
Photo credits: Ben and Graham


Saturday, May 28, 2016

Eternal return: Maria's of Hampden

Pizza Club sometimes wakes in the dead of night paralyzed by the terror of eternal recurrence. If there are a finite number of pizzas, and a finite number of pizza parlors, must not the same pizza reappear again and again in different times and places? Nietzsche suggests that there is no escape from this iron law of the universe and Pizza Club's function is to write this review over and over. Even as the mundane world is wracked by paroxysms of change and capitalism vomits up its bilious stream of innovations, we'll always be sitting at the same vinyl-topped table and eating the same pretty average pizza. Except at the new Maria's of Hampden, where there is no table.


We recently found ourselves once again in that basement corner of Keswick and 36th, a site once associated with Angelo's Big Slice, the "biggest" slice of "pizza" in Baltimore. The Big Slice died an ignominious death and now haunts the retirement tower on Roland and 40th. Its ghost is still tasty enough and they need your business so get up there and support Angelo's while enjoying a fantastic view. Meanwhile, the corner shop at 36th and Keswick was commandeered by a Frankenstein's monster, 36th Avenue Pizza, stitched together from spare parts. We did not have the opportunity to sample this pizza before the venture self-destructed.


Currently Maria's, a dine-in/carryout in Parkville, is attempting to operate a Baltimore branch in the same accursed corner. First mistake, Maria, is that the space has plenty of room for seating but you have not obtained tables. We are used to sitting under the awning outside Angelo's to eat gross slices of pizza. Baltimore's memory is long. Go to Home Depot and buy a plastic table. The bereft interior, combined with the forlorn 36th Ave Pizza sign still hanging out front makes us think that Maria's is hesitant about making a commitment to the location.


Pizza Club has no reason to believe that certain pizzas in New York City don't taste exactly like the greasy, sweet, bready pizza produced in Maria's ovens. Indeed, one Pizza Club member compared the cheese pies to a recently-scarfed dollar slice obtained around Union Station. Thus, some will call it passable New York style pie, which they may use as a synonym for what Kate called "totally reasonable" fast-food pizza. Plain, pleasantly crisped, mild and inoffensive. The free pepper flakes, garlic salt, and parmesan are there for a reason, but you need to remember to take them with you in a little plastic container because there's nowhere to sit. The price is right -- Maria's wants you to embrace the circularity of the universe by buying one large cheese pizza and getting the second for a dollar. For good measure, Pizza Club did this twice.


We observed that the large pies look much less appetizing coming out of the oven than the smaller ones, perhaps a consequence of heat distribution challenges. Maria's friendly teenage workers humored our questions about the principium individuationis and helped us stack up the pizza discounts. We left them to their fate and marched up 36th Street in a ragged pizza procession to share our shame with the denizens of the mostly-empty Belgian beer hall where you're allowed to bring your own self-destructive food preferences.


The cheese pie, as noted, was chewy and bland but pretty reasonable for what amounted to like $4 per pie. A mushroom and pepper pie did not inspire much interest. The exotic entry, a Greek pizza, was laden with vinegary pepperonchini which gave it some spice and flavor interest but did not strike us as especially Greek. The white-bread style crust is sturdy enough to support numerous toppings. Ben speculated that this pie would be good next-day pizza, but we were not able to investigate this as we gave away the leftover slices to the crust punks encamped in the vestibules of the Avenue.


"This is not great pizza," said Ben. "It is rubbery and sweet and not too flavorful. It is good pizza." When in Hampden, Pizza Club prefers Bella Roma or an Indian pie at Philly's Best. We spent a lot of time discussing Maria's selection of the classic pizza box design that depicts a brutalist courtyard in perspective with a giant flaming pizza sun setting behind a restaurant. Or is the fiery pizza sun rising? We are indifferent.

4/8 slices

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Imitations of metropolitan splendor

Pizzatella of Security Square Mall
6901 Security Boulevard, Baltimore, MD 21244


The southern annex of Security Square Mall, with almost 100% vacancy, frozen escalators, and piles of 90s-era debris accumulating behind burned-out karaoke-club neon, is a harbinger of the post-apocalyptic future in which squatter communities repopulate America's abandoned suburban retail habitats. The mall's central body remains vibrant despite this ghostly appendage; indeed, passing from the hollow, dust-marbled pall of the annex into the main commercial avenue, one feels like a dead soul rudely shaken back to life. The mall's classic design features – luxuriant terraces of tropical plants arranged beneath domed skylights like a cartoon version of nineteenth-century hothouse architecture – gestural fake cornices masking ventilation pipes – invites visitors to take their leisure and edification among the miniature retail environments occupied by slightly off-brand replacements for the major national chains that fled Security Square for newer strip malls. There's a cavernous inflatable-jumping-structure palace for children's parties, a popular Japanese buffet, and a custom menswear shop currently stocking Hawaiian-print suit jackets for summer.


There's also a food court with slightly-askew versions of standard food-court fare. Heated tureens of Chinese noodles glimmer with the promise of the familiar. Up close, things are not what they seem. Pizza Club gravitated towards a jazzy-looking sign for “Pizzatella”. Vaguely evocative – is it a reference to mozzarella? Or piatella, an uncommon Tuscan bean? Pizzatella has customized its niche in the food court panorama with a fake brick oven formed by building a box of red tiles around a normal stacked stainless steel unit, and with some close-up images of Italian food postered on the wall. Multiple flat-screens also show surreally saturated images of pizza.


Pizza Club obtained two huge and perfectly-sliced wedges of cheese and pepperoni pizza. Its shine was so blinding that it may have been a mirage. Scott carefully tracked the progress of this grease through the pies and thence through the layers of paper plates. We found the cheese elastic and toothsome – plausible as real mozzarella – but quickly on the heels of this texture came a chemical aftertaste, suggesting a synthetic cheese whose oil had separated out during re-heating to form the above-noted oily sheen.


The crust was white bread in style, but perfectly toasted and crunchy when fresh from the fake-brick oven. As it cooled, it got chewier and heavier, until the remnant crusts began to weigh down the greasy plates and sag through the vinyl-top tables, pressing towards a dense gravitational center under the mall made from decades worth of agglomerated uneaten pizza crust.


Scott posited that we had just consumed white bread with marinara sauce and American cheese, distorted by the mall's occult aura to look like a fresh, delicious slice of pizza. “My hunger is satisfied, but I'm not sure how I'll feel in an hour,” he stated. In an hour, would he even be the same Scott? Something resembling daylight filtered through the glass dome, amplified by wrap-around mirrors in the ceiling -- the consumer simulacrum of a Crystal Palace -- or a museum of natural history filled with processed cheese.


3/8 slices

Thursday, May 5, 2016

Pizza Club remembers memories: Chuck E. Cheese’s


My marketing department just had a shitfit: ‘You can’t call a restaurant a rat place! People think rats are dirty. It’s not going to work.’
-- Chuck E. Cheese’s founder Nolan Bushnell 

In the wake of a recent near-collision with a rogue pizza delivery vehicle – watch out for that drunk Michelangelo's driver, guys – many things were shaken loose and rearranged within the brain of Pizza Club. Memories of the distant past rose up vividly as Pizza Club wandered in a gauzy realm of fever dreams fueled by the heat of a million brick ovens coursing through its head and neck regions. Among the kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria of funny cat gifs, tessellating shapes, and talking trees, a fragmentary vision kept recurring – a band of anthropomorphic swamp creatures  lit by colorful spotlights on a shallow stage, strumming  and tootling their respective instruments with jerky, hypnotic motions. Sometimes the song  was “Happy birthday to you, sometimes “Sweet Home Alabama” – the creaking of their fur-wrapped metal joints was audible as they pivoted, “jumping and jiving” to the demonic melodies. At first Pizza Club feared that a long-repressed childhood trauma was surfacing from deep memory banks. Fortunately this was a more recent experience; we were at Chuck-E-Cheese only a few short months ago and just forgot to review their pizza. With the strains of swampy music fading once again, we hasten to put pen to paper. 

Pizza Club was out at the sewage treatment plant in Essex last fall, the one across from the abandoned Diamond Point Plaza mall. The only business still in operation at Diamond Point Plaza is Chuck-E-Cheese's. Hungry after a long afternoon of learning about sewage treatment, and with no standards of palatability left to uphold, Pizza Club decided it was time to return to a place which, for many, is the gateway into American pizza culture. 

The first thing to know about visiting Chuck E. Cheese as an adult is that the place is a seething ocean of kid-borne germs. Pizza Club has never been prone to germophobia but it has also never seen so many kids coughing, sneezing, drooling, and wiping boogers on every surface in a small enclosed space. The vigorous activity of pathogens was so palpable that we resigned ourselves to inevitable cold and flu. 

The second thing is that Chuck E. Cheese is still a paradise of childhood. Even in an abandoned mall across from a sewage treatment plant in a former red-light district on the outskirts of Baltimore, kids were having a fantastic time immersed in a self-contained universe of flashing lights and frantic over-stimulating games. Chuck E. Cheese has its own currency. It temporarily appropriates the signifiers of adult power and domination under the banner of its furry animatronic mascot. Children of all different races classes etc. etc. were playing in harmony, rolling on a collective sugar high while harried parents and older siblings sat back in germ-coated plastic booths enjoying a respite from the typhoon of kid energy swirling all around. 

Pizza Club was fascinated to find that no time has passed in Chuck E. Cheese since the late 1980s. Except for a different line-up of Disney themed cakes, everything is as it was and we saw that it was good. 

We rallied our courage, absorbing quizzical glances from parents alarmed by the arrival of multiple childless adults. We smiled and nodded at them as though to acknowledge that hanging out in Chuck E. Cheese is a creepy thing to do, but we were there for scientific purposes. Pizza Club marched to the food counter and ordered one personal pan pizza. Obviously a large pie would be more representative, but we were trespassing on these kids' turf and wanted to get out before catching the flu. While waiting for our tiny pizza we spent all our change on skeeball, won reams of Chuck E. Cheese tickets, got really excited, and then remembered that it takes a million Chuck E. Cheese tickets to buy an entry-level novelty eraser. 

Before we could register disappointment we got distracted by the arrival of pizza. There's no time to feel anything in the blissful Chuck E. Cheese vortex – it doesn't matter if you win or lose, if it's your birthday or some other kid's, if the swamp band is made up of benevolent or sinister robots. Gingerly we sat on slime encrusted benches and each seized a pizza wedge in unwashed hands, prepared to pay any price for knowledge. 
 
Chuck E. Cheese's pizza tastes the same as it did in 1992.



3/8 slices