Dear
Cici's "Pizza",
Although it is round, has a crust, and you pile
shit toppings on it, I do not think that this can be legally called pizza:
Kraft Dinner + Crust ≠ Pizza. It's just math.
(In case that's not clear, this is a Mac & Cheese Pizza.)
I understand the thought process. "Pizza's Italian! Pasta's Italian! People will eat anything with cheese on it! Go for it!" Still, just because one can do a thing does not mean one should do a thing.
And your Cheeseburger "pizza,"
What's that red stuff? That can't be ketchup...can it?
I get it. What's more American than a cheeseburger? Cheeseburger pizza!
(Yes, there is an apple pie pizza. It's for dessert!)
In case you hadn't guessed, I am back in the Land of Buffets - Central Florida. Cici's Pizza is a cheap pizza buffet where you can cram yourself full of pizza, pasta, and cinnamon rolls for about $6.
Cici's always seems like a good idea. For the first six slices.
Even as I start to dig in, I know in my head and my heart that one slice of cheese pizza from an average New York pizzeria is preferable to 12 slices of whatever Cici's has thawed out that day.
Plus the pizza's not all that good. There's a lot of it, and I hope you like meat on it because the veggie options are few and far between. The day I went, there was one pizza that had vegetables on it. It sat on the heat rack, all sad and lonely.
There is also a pathetic little bowl of lettuce next to some fixin's, and they can apparently call that salad.
Really, compared to this Olive Garden is a bistro in Rome.
But, shamefully, I must confess that I kind of like the mac & cheese pizza.
Really, I'd be less ashamed to admit to spending my paycheck on strippers and meth. (NOTE TO MY WIFE: That's a joke, honey! Really!)
Oh, my poor mother. As a child, she would make sicilian pizza from scratch, spending all day pounding down the rising dough, simmering the sauce, grating cheese. And here I am wolfing down round bread with any old toppings on it.
My Sicilian great-grandparents are rolling in their graves. Wha' a-happen' to you? I blame it on my parents growing up in south east Pennsylvania. The scrapple deadened their taste buds.
No, blaming your parents is the coward's way out. I must own my shame. And I must now return to my hotel...
Which is next door to a Cici's.
