Implications
“I’d like the mini-pizza with pepperoni and onions, please.”
What? So I’m a little hungry today. And, I did order the mini pizza. I was really in the mood for pizza for lunch, and though I’ve just discovered there’s a Two Boots in Grand Central, the thought of actually dealing with Grand Central during the lunch rush was unspeakably off-putting. Hence I took a stroll down the block to do some take-out menu collecting and sample the wares of the pizza place I pass every time I give up and just go to the Amish Market.
For some reason, in my head, mini-pizza equals the garbage we used to get in the high school cafeteria that I think was made by Pizza Hut, had a seriously greasy case of Nasty Crust, and was probably 7” in diameter. Each slice was like three bites, and, while eating it was tantamount to cutting a deal with the devil of arterial sclerosis, it was cheap and filled you up.
Cut to this afternoon, when I order my mini-pizza, go to the cooler to grab a can of soda, and turn back to the counter to see the pizza dude stretching out the dough, adding the toppings, and sliding the thing into the oven. I grab a seat, thinking ‘this is going to take a while,’ and spend 10 pleasant minutes people-watching while my pizza cooks.
I’m not really paying attention as it comes out of the oven and is boxed, but the pizza dude starts making the ‘it’s ready’ face, so I sidle over to the counter to pick up my food.
“Thanks,” I say, turning towards the door.
“Oh, wait!” pizza dude yells. “Here.”
He places 4 paper plates and 20 napkins on top of the box, and off I go.
I get back to my desk, open the pizza box, and discover this thing is the size of a tractor wheel. So I eat it. All of it. Even picked the onions off the waxed paper. Because I will never be a size 2, have never cared to be, and love to freakin’ eat.
What I resent is pizza dude’s assumption that I was going to share. Why else would he have given me enough plates and napkins for a small platoon of eaters? Granted, I had grossly underestimated what the word mini means to some people, but in my book mini = personal = all mine.
Because I am a shameless glutton, this happens all the time. When I order sushi, there’s 3 or 4 pairs of chopsticks crammed in the bag. Implication: I’ve ordered enough raw fish to feed 3 or 4 normal people. Indian food? You know there’s an extra naan in there. Ditto for tortillas and Mexican. Crumbled peanuts and Thai. I am an enthusiast of all the cuisines of the world available to me in New York, and all the delivery people seem to think I'm ordering meals for 4.
Is this a subtle commentary from America’s take out industry that I eat too much? I know children somewhere are starving and that makes me sad on the inside. But I can’t talk about it, because my mouth is too full.
What? So I’m a little hungry today. And, I did order the mini pizza. I was really in the mood for pizza for lunch, and though I’ve just discovered there’s a Two Boots in Grand Central, the thought of actually dealing with Grand Central during the lunch rush was unspeakably off-putting. Hence I took a stroll down the block to do some take-out menu collecting and sample the wares of the pizza place I pass every time I give up and just go to the Amish Market.
For some reason, in my head, mini-pizza equals the garbage we used to get in the high school cafeteria that I think was made by Pizza Hut, had a seriously greasy case of Nasty Crust, and was probably 7” in diameter. Each slice was like three bites, and, while eating it was tantamount to cutting a deal with the devil of arterial sclerosis, it was cheap and filled you up.
Cut to this afternoon, when I order my mini-pizza, go to the cooler to grab a can of soda, and turn back to the counter to see the pizza dude stretching out the dough, adding the toppings, and sliding the thing into the oven. I grab a seat, thinking ‘this is going to take a while,’ and spend 10 pleasant minutes people-watching while my pizza cooks.
I’m not really paying attention as it comes out of the oven and is boxed, but the pizza dude starts making the ‘it’s ready’ face, so I sidle over to the counter to pick up my food.
“Thanks,” I say, turning towards the door.
“Oh, wait!” pizza dude yells. “Here.”
He places 4 paper plates and 20 napkins on top of the box, and off I go.
I get back to my desk, open the pizza box, and discover this thing is the size of a tractor wheel. So I eat it. All of it. Even picked the onions off the waxed paper. Because I will never be a size 2, have never cared to be, and love to freakin’ eat.
What I resent is pizza dude’s assumption that I was going to share. Why else would he have given me enough plates and napkins for a small platoon of eaters? Granted, I had grossly underestimated what the word mini means to some people, but in my book mini = personal = all mine.
Because I am a shameless glutton, this happens all the time. When I order sushi, there’s 3 or 4 pairs of chopsticks crammed in the bag. Implication: I’ve ordered enough raw fish to feed 3 or 4 normal people. Indian food? You know there’s an extra naan in there. Ditto for tortillas and Mexican. Crumbled peanuts and Thai. I am an enthusiast of all the cuisines of the world available to me in New York, and all the delivery people seem to think I'm ordering meals for 4.
Is this a subtle commentary from America’s take out industry that I eat too much? I know children somewhere are starving and that makes me sad on the inside. But I can’t talk about it, because my mouth is too full.
Labels: cuisine, eating, gluttony
posted by Liz at 12:30 PM
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