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