I call myself “The Ubereater” because my affinity for consuming food in unnecessary quantity and with frightening frequency is deeply rooted in who I am as a person. This obsession compels me to consume what I covet, and in turn, further covet what I consume.
While I enjoy 99% of all foods to some extent, I refuse to eat any dish or preparation derived from, or designed to highlight, canned tuna fish. Bumblebee, Chicken of the Sea, whichever brand you prefer, to me it all smells putrid, looks like regurgitated cat food, and has an uncanny ability to remind me that my gag reflex still works properly. Why anyone in full control of his or her mental faculties would consciously sit down and eat a can of this rancid rubbish is beyond my level of comprehension. I’ve nurtured this hatred for tuna since my grammar school days when some detention-bound delinquent would sit next to me at lunch and expose a haphazardly prepared tuna fish sandwich on flimsy, already soggy white bread. Hours old, and slowly disintegrating in a pool of its own tepid juices, it was impossible to discern where the bread ended and the heinous mess of white slop began. At that point my innocent PB & J was ruined. The noxious odor of processed tuna was relentless and unforgiving, permeating my personal space on the incredibly cramped eating bench. As if this wasn’t enough, the offending kid always had some sort of behavioral problem that made him as obnoxious and unkempt as the sandwich itself. While he yelled unintelligibly across the table, I struggled to dodge the shower of par-chewed tuna shrapnel that flew out of his mouth. It was disgusting, disturbing, and I soon won’t forget it.
While I enjoy 99% of all foods to some extent, I refuse to eat any dish or preparation derived from, or designed to highlight, canned tuna fish. Bumblebee, Chicken of the Sea, whichever brand you prefer, to me it all smells putrid, looks like regurgitated cat food, and has an uncanny ability to remind me that my gag reflex still works properly. Why anyone in full control of his or her mental faculties would consciously sit down and eat a can of this rancid rubbish is beyond my level of comprehension. I’ve nurtured this hatred for tuna since my grammar school days when some detention-bound delinquent would sit next to me at lunch and expose a haphazardly prepared tuna fish sandwich on flimsy, already soggy white bread. Hours old, and slowly disintegrating in a pool of its own tepid juices, it was impossible to discern where the bread ended and the heinous mess of white slop began. At that point my innocent PB & J was ruined. The noxious odor of processed tuna was relentless and unforgiving, permeating my personal space on the incredibly cramped eating bench. As if this wasn’t enough, the offending kid always had some sort of behavioral problem that made him as obnoxious and unkempt as the sandwich itself. While he yelled unintelligibly across the table, I struggled to dodge the shower of par-chewed tuna shrapnel that flew out of his mouth. It was disgusting, disturbing, and I soon won’t forget it.
That said, as much as I detest tuna, I love everything else edible, be it the simplicity of a cheeseburger, or the complexity of mashed parsley root with balsamic vinegar (compliments of Mario Batali's Lupa). Yet among the many shining stars of the kingdom of comestibles, there is only ruler…the Almighty Pizza Pie.
Deemed unhealthy by some, unconventional by others, and disturbing by almost all, my approach to pizza is out of the ordinary, if not downright strange. For instance, despite the hundreds of pies I’ve tackled, I still can’t help but get annoyed with the seemingly endless wait for the pie to come to the table. These minutes are tenuous, nerve-wracking, and rather annoying. It is also more than likely that I will burn my mouth on the first slice, and absolutely certain that I’ll complain about it afterwards. I will always succumb to eating ALL unclaimed slices, no matter the number, or how bloated I may already be. These are the my personal pizza peccadilloes that make an “everyday” treat for most, not so “everyday” for a crazy guy like me.
Notwithstanding my idiosyncrasies, pizza is the spine of the book that tells the stories of our lives, making first dates casual, late nights of drinking memorable, and the final stages of a waning relationship somewhat tolerable. From Domino’s, to Lombardi’s to Una Pizza Napoletana, there is a pizza for every palette and every paycheck. In fact, no other food has been commercialized, perfected, recreated, resurrected, ruined, or bastardized with such fervor and attention as the American Pizza Pie. Similarly, in all of my indiscriminant eating adventures, pizza has by far consumed more of my time, money, and calories than anything else put in front of me.
It is with a clear mind, a padded wallet, and an empty stomach that I descend upon these mean streets in search of the best pizza pie in our great New York City.
I can’t wait to tell you about it….
Deemed unhealthy by some, unconventional by others, and disturbing by almost all, my approach to pizza is out of the ordinary, if not downright strange. For instance, despite the hundreds of pies I’ve tackled, I still can’t help but get annoyed with the seemingly endless wait for the pie to come to the table. These minutes are tenuous, nerve-wracking, and rather annoying. It is also more than likely that I will burn my mouth on the first slice, and absolutely certain that I’ll complain about it afterwards. I will always succumb to eating ALL unclaimed slices, no matter the number, or how bloated I may already be. These are the my personal pizza peccadilloes that make an “everyday” treat for most, not so “everyday” for a crazy guy like me.
Notwithstanding my idiosyncrasies, pizza is the spine of the book that tells the stories of our lives, making first dates casual, late nights of drinking memorable, and the final stages of a waning relationship somewhat tolerable. From Domino’s, to Lombardi’s to Una Pizza Napoletana, there is a pizza for every palette and every paycheck. In fact, no other food has been commercialized, perfected, recreated, resurrected, ruined, or bastardized with such fervor and attention as the American Pizza Pie. Similarly, in all of my indiscriminant eating adventures, pizza has by far consumed more of my time, money, and calories than anything else put in front of me.
It is with a clear mind, a padded wallet, and an empty stomach that I descend upon these mean streets in search of the best pizza pie in our great New York City.
I can’t wait to tell you about it….
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5 comments:
Vincenzo! This was a brillianly written piece showcasing the abhorribly poor judgment of the American public in consuming canned tuna fish; at the same time the piece shows that, perhaps, all hope is not lost for the average American as the popularity of something as traditional and culturally embedded as pizza leads me to believe that, maybe, just maybe, there is still a chance for food with distinguishable ingredients to prevail.
As disgust-provoking as your thoughts on tuna were, your thoughts on pizza were equally mouthwatering and appetizing. Two thumbs up; Keep up the good work!
Amen brother. I have ended relationships based on the other's love for canned tuna. I have developed an intense loathing for my eighth grade science teacher (Mrs. Boyle) based on a memory of seeing her devour a disgustingly smelly tuna sandwich a year prior. It's a deal breaker. Seriously.
Gentlemen, both comments are positively refreshing. The purity and utter beauty of the pizza pie is a world away from the wretched can of shredded tuna. It is good to know that I am not alone. Let's make it our mission, our m.o., to forever rid our precious earth of this nasty processed food product.
Bravissimo! Your battle and combative tone toward the tuna eater is correctly aligned. However, my quarrel with tuna stems from a different perspective. As bad as the grammar school student with the unkempt and mayonnaise-soaked sandwich, is the individual with after-tuna-breath. This affliction is one that requires immediate remedy. The olfactory senses become tinged and smothered by the rotting of left over fishe particles between one’s molars. Tuna, prepared and fresh, is a tolerable and bearable scent. However, as time passes (without gum or mint) the smell coming from ones mouth is atrocious. If tuna eating must continue. . . Bumble Bee should join forces with Binaca.
Keep eating pie. We must dine together soon!
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