Sad Time Pizza

You had been checking out this Leaning Tower for some time, trying desperately to make a move, but it never surrendered to your advances. It reminds you of your ex. In the past, you were perhaps too forward, too eager. But when you least expected it, Leaning Tower stood before you and, for the first time, you felt welcome.

You feel a stirring within when you realize that this pizza can lick you. Beef tongue pastrami is the centerpiece of this pie and the “raw brusselkraut” makes it difficult to keep your eyes trained on appropriate places. The tomato sauce, crushed garlic, and onions nearly escape your notice given the other assets on display. Altogether, the package is surprisingly alluring, like a polaroid boudoir photo of pizza you’ve eyed lustily in days gone by.

Of course you draw close, doing your best to still your trembling lips. You reach out and feel a jolt of electricity as you gingerly cradle a slice in your hand and gently fold it. Of course your lips part when you lean in, and of course your eyes close as you anticipate contact... but oh, what’s this scent, this funk, this sour-sweet fetor that you would never expect on a pizza? Is it safe?

Soon enough, it dawns on you that this particular stench is what inspires your ardor. The brusselkraut, whose presence is made known in every bite, scent, and sight, turns a routine carb-heavy mastication session into a story that you never want to end.

It’s strange, at first, with the smell. You wonder: why is this in my mouth? Why am I mashing my face against it? Do I actually enjoy this? What can come of it? What is our future together?

But this uncertainty fades with each bite as you become accustomed to the unique scent, the unusual textures, the alluring — if unconventional — looks. You begin to get an idea of what your life would be like together. You begin to prepare yourself for a second slice. A third. A fourth.

You can’t get enough. You gorge yourself first on its looks, then on its body. You never want it to stop.

You don’t finish, though. You understand the value of self-discipline. You know that you want to invite this one home, to wake up next to it. To do it all again in the morning, in a more intimate setting. The smell is muted when you gaze upon it once more, and the pizza is cold. You warm it up with your body.

Boyfriend Sez

I was drawn to this pizza due to the fact that I had never heard of beef tongue pastrami, nor of tongue on a pizza, nor of brusselkraut. I had grave doubts about how well it would all work together, but my concerns were shattered. This is a unique pizza, but its fundamentals are rock-solid, from the foldable crust, to the light touch with the sauce, to the fact that the cheese remains stuck to the slice with each bite. I’m excited to try one of their more conventional offerings in the future.

4 Slices

Girlfriend Sez

Barnyard stank makes this pizza stand out from the herd. I see a slice, but I taste Saint Patrick’s Day. This pie represents an entire field of microbiological study, for surely the powers of bacterial growth were somehow harnessed in it’s fabrication. Oft-quoted French poet Leon-Paul Fargue’s sentiments about Camembert are apropos: “this cheese that smells of the feet of God.” In “The Science of Cheese,” Michael H. Tunick recounts the scent produced by brevibacterium linens in smear-ripened cheese as “fatty, rancid, sweaty.” In fermented beverages, brettanomyces can produce phenolic tastes such as “horse blanket,” “leather,” or “phone booth.” In traditional sauerkraut, this might be the result of lacto-fermentation, where a our tiny friend(s) lactobacillus are submerged in brine to convert available sugars into lactic acid with their wizard powers. Is that what’s happening with the brusselkraut? I dunno, I don’t know how food works.

3.5 Slices

Sad Time Score

7.5/10

This is the tale of PHILOMENA and the Garlic Garden it created, which was good.

To house the Garlic Garden, PHILOMENA created a bar out of dust, and behind it placed many wells from which beer flowed.

It was in this garden that two consumers of pizza were formed by PHILOMENA, who instilled within them great hunger and great thirst. And PHILOMENA commanded the consumers thus: Of every pizza in my Garden you may eat and of every tap thou mayst drink; but if you consume all thou shalt surely die.

And PHILOMENA added, thou mayst not sup on the garlic breadsticks, for they have been supped to completion.

And PHILOMENA offered the diners a Campfire Stout from Highwater Brewing, which was rich and delicious, with a generous hint of chocolate, and it was good.

The Man and the Woman were hungry, and were not ashamed. The Man and the Woman asked of PHILOMENA’s bartender some victuals.

But then PHILOMENA presented the Man and the Woman with the Garlic Garden, which consisted of a rich forest of arugula, tomatoes, parmesan, and other bounties that PHILOMENA had made to nourish the Man and the Woman. The soil of the garden was a dense, chewy loam that more resembled the clouds in the sky than the thick breading of which the Man and Woman had eaten at other establishments. And they asked PHILOMENA, Why have you made the bed of your garden like the clouds in the sky? PHILOMENA did not answer, but both knew that it was good, for PHILOMENA was a wise and generous Creator who had made the Garden for them.

And the lush greenery of the garden bore the taste of a bitter lemon, which engaged in earnest conversation with the pesto and mozzarella and parmesan, and the tomatoes spoke brightly of the world as it could be in Summer, and the garlic oil and whole cloves of garlic were the sun that PHILOMENA had made for the Garlic Garden, and the taste the Man and Woman experienced was like beautiful music in their mouths, and it was good.

And PHILOMENA had provided the Man and the Woman with salt as well as olive oil infused with red pepper. The salt had sharp words with the lemon dressing, while the the red pepper oil loomed large over all, threatening to douse PHILOMENA’s creation in hellfire. The Man and the Woman enjoyed both, though the oil drove the Man to drink ever more from the tap that PHILOMENA had provided.

But when the Campfire Stout ran dry,* the Man did crave more than PHILOMENA could provide from its wells. And the Man said to the bartender, What of those cans in the back? And the bartender did bring bring a Black House from Modern Times Beer, and the Man was disappointed by this offering, and it put a bitter end to the Garlic Garden that now rested in the stomachs of the Man and the Woman.

And when the bartender came back, he said, What is this that thou hast done? We are closing and thou must leave. And he demanded currency of the Man and the Woman, and they were cast out of the Garden by PHILOMENA, and they walked home in the dark, reveling in the memory of what they had lost.**

Boyfriend Sez

This was not our first visit to Philomena, and it will not be our last. I confess that the Garlic Garden is not typically the kind of pizza speaks to my soul—I prefer red sauce at the very least—but the salty-ass cheese was a beautiful counterpoint to the bitter tanginess of the arugula lemon dressing. And frankly, anything that’s covered with as much garlic as this thing was will make me love it forever. I would be remiss if I didn’t also highlight the crust, which is one of the best I’ve had—soft, pillowy, and with enough structural integrity to hold together while folded and slathered with red pepper-infused oil, it is everything that I look for in a crust that isn’t intentionally filling its trunk with junk.

4.5 Slices

Girlfriend Sez

It’s difficult to consider Philomena without comparing her against her elder sibling, Portal. Where she tends toward the spoartzball side of the bar spectrum, Portal leans more pub-ward. If you haven’t surmised my stance on spoartz by spelling alone, I present to you this gif:

However, if like me, you are able to wrest some small mote of enjoyment out of life by constructing objectively uninteresting Venn diagrams, I would recommend exploring the tap selections of both establishments as a means to that end. Their taps are some of the best curated in the immediate area.

And they have this bitchin’ pizza pelican.

Long may he reign.

3.5 Slices

Overall Sad Time Score

8 Slices

Footnotes

* We did in fact drink the last of it.

According to a variety of news media outlets, February 9 was National Pizza Day. But why does National Pizza Day fall on February 9? Did American colonists, under cover of darkness, dump boatfuls of East India Company pizzas into Boston Harbor in 1773? Did the signing of the Pizza Treaty bring an end to the war in 1919? Did the son of an imaginary pizza die for our sins?

Pizza Drew is on the case! Many articles in the first three pages of Google search results link to this as their source, which openly admits “Within our research, we were unable to identify the creator of National Pizza Day.” Wikipedia’s “List of food days” has February 9 marked as “National Pizza Day (at least two slices)” and cites an article from The Economic Times (India), which gives National Pizza Day a hasty mention alongside other American food holidays (pretzel, potato chip, and hamburger) as if to say “Oh, silly Americans!” Holiday Insights also admits “Our research did not find the creator, or the origin of this day. This is typical of so many food related holidays. We did not find any documentation confirming this to be a ‘National’ day. We found no congressional records or presidential proclamation.” And the same is true of at least two related holidays: “National Cheese Pizza Day” and “National Pepperoni Pizza Day”.

Time finally says what I’m thinking: “... most of these National Whatever Days are totally fake.” And my approach to National Pizza Day becomes decidedly more Nihilistic, because not everything has a purpose.* So, in the spirit of Nihilist Arby’s, fuck it, life is pain, eat some pizza, and gawk at this picture of Beyoncé:

Sometimes your significant other is out of town and you make a regrettable decision that poisons everything. Here is mine: I ate a Hot Pocket.

I wouldn’t call it temptation — what’s tempting about Devil’s Sausage Rolls? — so much as an impulse to see if a much-loved food from my childhood could actually stand the scrutiny of a more refined palate. Which brings us to this.

As alluring as the Bastard-Stromboli looks in its crisping corset — which crisps nothing, by the way — and as sexy as the prospect of unwrapping said corset while you mouth your way to its nethers seems, this experience is a uniformly bad one.

There’s obviously butter in the crust — along with a vague whiff of garlic, not unlike a clove had been peeled and left at room temperature for days — but the fact that it’s used to such ill effect is offensive. Imagine if someone had soaked a paper towel in melted butter, then wrapped it around around some oily cheese and generic meats — that’s what this is. That’s all this is.

The cheese — the types of which are unidentified by the box — evoke memories of school-cafeteria pizza, while the meats blend together, offering the same taste from different shapes. (And for the record, I only counted two such shapes in my particular Satan Calzone.) I suspect the experience would be better without these cardboard-tasting lumps mucking up the slurry of generic cheese product, but I’m not willing to try and verify that for a good long while, if ever.

It’s tempting to say there’s nowhere to go but up — that this situation could be improved by either addition or subtraction — but I very much doubt that, as the dark alchemists at Nestle who birthed this Vile Stromboli are clear masters of misery.

So, why would you reach for Hot Pockets? Perhaps you’re yearning for a simpler time, an idyllic childhood in which you would be satisfied by anything resembling pizza, a time before you developed a refined palate, when were able to indulge in simple, easily microwavable pleasures. This is, to an extent, understandable — I’m the one who ate a Hot Pocket, after all — but I implore you not to succumb to these dark impulses. The nuance that comes with varying degrees of quality is a thing to be cherished, not spurned, and Hot Pockets are creatures that squat on that nuance and unleash a foul torrent that drowns out everything else.

As I write this, the discomfort in my abdomen is growing. Perhaps the best that can be said about Hot Pockets is that, provided you are sufficiently motivated not to eat them again, you are likely, given time, to recover from the gross feelings they inflict on your body.

Jim Gaffigan was right.

Dulono’s was the inspiration for our inaugural post, and we are deeply saddened to hear that grievous harm befell one of their own, Andrew Gryskiewicz, while carrying out his pizza delivering duties and making the world a brighter, happier, and more caloric place. Lets make it rain dollars on his medical bills!

We ventured to a dark place, dear readers, and what we found was betrayal in in the shape of something we love. We stared into the Abyss, but the Abyss entered us also — this is our tale of woe.

To the point: you don’t go to Little Caesars to get delicious pizza, because that’s not something you’ll find at Little Caesars. You go to Little Caesars to satisfy a need without enjoyment — and like any situation where you feel obligated to fulfill a visceral, carnal need, you’re probably not going to enjoy it all that much in the end. In this case, the carnal satisfaction comes from a spongy mass of bread and bland cheese, but you’ll still feel like you’ve just administered a pity fuck to the establishment that sold you the pizza.

Our pity fuck took the form of a Stuffed Crust DEEP!DEEP! Dish Pizza, which bills itself as “an 8-corner deep dish pizza surrounded by a unique, crisp-on-the-bottom crust that is stuffed with gooey cheese, and topped with even more cheese, plus pepperoni.” It is nothing if not excessive, but the description is not accurate, either. For one thing, the 8-corner claim is bullshit: what you get is two square pizzas in a single box. There’s also the fact that nothing about this pizza (or these pizzas) is crispy: it’s all spongy bread that, despite its incredible absorbent qualities, still leaks grease like a large, weeping wound. When you take a bite, the crust-pustule — or crustule, if you will — expresses itself further, and the cheese bursting out from said crust is always an unwelcome surprise. Maybe that internal cheese would be more pleasant if it had a flavor besides greasy salt, or if it didn’t suggest a sexual act that etiquette dictates should be preceded by a warning.

We also got Crazy Bread, which is the Little Caesars name for breadsticks that are greasy enough to make your skin semi-translucent while concealing the flavors of the garlic and parmesan that are allegedly present. This is to say nothing of the so-called Crazy Sauce, which is watered-down marinara at best.

The pizza, in other words, is not good, and neither is the Crazy Bread. The bright spot here is that, while the pizza is bad, purchasing it amounts to indirectly supporting the Detroit Red Wings,* so we had that going for us, which was nice. We realize that that’s not enough for most people — nor should it be.

All of which is to say that The Dungeon is dark and DEEP!DEEP!, and we went there so you wouldn’t have to.

Boyfriend Sez

Like poets, advertisements will lie to you, which is to say you should disregard any claim of crispiness that comes with a Little Caesars deep dish pizza. In reality, it’s amazingly spongy, almost like a savory angel food cake. We tend to favor thin and chewy crusts here at Sad Time Pizza, but we’ve demonstrated an openness to deep dish in the past — the Stuffed Crust DEEP!DEEP! Dish Pizza, however, does not pass muster.

I don’t mind it, though. Part of that sentiment is certainly rooted in nostalgia and my hockey loyalties, but the pizza also manages to be deeply satisfying in the way that greasy bar food is satisfying, but without actually being good. The copious amounts of cheese and bread are gratifying on a visceral level, and you’ll get plenty of both with the Stuffed Crust DEEP!DEEP! Dish Pizza.

You could do much worse. But do I recommend it? Nope.

Two slices.

Girlfriend Sez

Under cover of night, I exchanged money for materials that defiled my digestive tract and clearly had no positive effect on the success of Boyfriend’s chosen spoarts team. When I first acquiesced to the idea of a Little Caesars post, the consensus was that we would partake of a pretzel crust, which, in theory, would not be as offensive to the alimentary canal as this cheese-insulated bread-prison turned out to be. This meal compelled me to repent for whatever sins may have lead me to ingest it. If only I had interpreted the broken door as a sign to turn away? Or if the surveillance camera and height-measure pasted on the wall had convinced me to head back the way I came?

I could have slept soundly without knowing that apple flavored soda exists.

No, Little Caesars Sports Zone, not everyone is a winner, for by dining here I have lost my dignity.

One slice, because pity.

Overall Sad Time Score

3/10 - Bite Bite, Sip Sip at your peril.

Footnotes

* Mike Illitch made his fortune by founding Little Caesar’s, and used said fortune to purchase the Detroit Red Wings in 1982. In part thanks to said ownership, the Red Wings own a playoff streak that’s old enough to drink (25 years).

One recent evening, we spent several hours getting belligerently drunk in San Francisco’s Mission District, and we somehow ended up in a deaf-owned and -operated pizzeria. Our arrival at Mozzeria may have been the result of a desperate search for something absorbent to consume, but it ended up being a lovely bit of carbohydrate-rich kismet. 

(Photo credit: KQED’s Bay Area Bites)

One can’t rightly separate the dining experience from the food at Mozzeria, and that’s not a bad thing.

Upon entering, it hits you that something’s different — even with other patrons speaking at normal volume, the fact that staff is silent creates a hushed environment. This isn’t unpleasant, and is actually quite lovely and conducive to conversation, but we can say from experience that recalibrating for such a tone after drinking for six hours is not the most natural transition. 

That’s to say nothing of how one communicates with the waitstaff. There was much pointing, many thumbs-up, awkward self-aware smiles, and, after frantically Googling some basic American Sign Language, even a few fumbling attempts to say “thank you.”*

We lavish so much attention on the deaf-affected aspects of the business because it was surprising, but don’t consider that a strike against, dear readers. There’s a certain self-consciousness that such a surprise creates, which was good for us — and it helps that the environment is ultimately extremely pleasant. Our waiter also gave us just the right amount of attention. We loved being there, in other words.

Oh, and the pizza’s excellent, too.

Mozzeria serves Neapolitan pizza served from a wood-burning oven, and that’s apparent by the pleasant pockets of charred dough dotting the gorgeous pies on offer. With such an oven, and with such a slate of offerings, one quivers with anticipation at the thought of tasting, say, a Margherita that’s forged there. What a bomb-ass cheese pizza this place must make!

But, dear readers, we have mentioned that we were nigh belligerently drunk when we arrived, and it took so much effort and focus to maintain a respectable demeanor in this temple of pizza prowess that we experienced a bit of a decision-making short-circuit and picked the oddest thing on the menu: a Peking Duck pizza. This was not a bad decision per se, but for two drunk folks who craved a traditional pizza, it was a bit of a misfire. We also did not give up on the drinks. Girlfriend sampled an Alice prosecco, and Boyfriend enjoyed a beer that was not adequately documented for posterity.

Let us first say that it was delicious. The texture and the taste of the crust certainly lives up to the promise of its gorgeous appearance — it’s pliable, chewy, moist, and flavorful; it’s damn near the platonic ideal of a pizza crust. Atop our pizza was a thin layer of hoisin sauce topped generously with chunks of Peking Duck which was itself dotted with bits of crispy skin that spoke to our souls through its contrast with the chewy texture and rich, powerful flavor of the meat. This was duck with a texture resembling slow-cooked pulled pork. To quote auto-correct, this pizza wasn’t ducking around, and it was awesome.

That said, our selection felt somewhat barren, like it was missing something — something that Mozzeria addresses with a plate of spring onions and cucumber slices along with a bowl of hoisin sauce served on the side. Their hoisin sauce is delicious, but it’s also on the thin side, meaning that, whether you dip your pizza or spoon some onto it, you’re probably going to make a little bit of a mess.** That said, the additional hoisin and other accoutrement go very well with the pizza — so well that we can’t help but think it would be better if that stuff was served on the pizza itself rather than on the side. This is a minor complaint.

We enjoyed our meal tremendously, but we do have one issue: the fact remains that what we ate was not pizza so much as it was duckbread. And the duckbread was delicious — we’ll eat that duckbread again! — but one could dispute its categorization as pizza, and the decision to order a not-pizza, dear readers, is our fault.*** We can’t help but feel that we’ve done a small disservice to the masses hungry for content on a pizza blog, to our personal cheese-cravings, and to Mozzeria. But to the latter, we make a promise: we’ll definitely come back soon, and we’ll get something more traditional when we do.

But goddamn, that duckbread was delicious.

Boyfriend Sez

Bread and hoisin go surprisingly well together, is my takeaway from our visit to Mozzeria. The crust was thick and chewy without being overbearingly so, the duck was tender but crisp in all the right places, and the hoisin was sweet with just a hint of tartness. If I must reach for a complaint, it’s that I wish the hoisin sauce that was served on the side was a bit thicker — or that there was just more hoisin baked onto the pizza itself. Given the pizza prowess on display here, it’s kind of a shame that we didn’t order something more traditional — but we’ll definitely be back, as much for the pizza as for the the unique dining experience. 4 slices.

Girlfriend Sez

At first, the silence was jarring, as if we had accidentally stumbled into a church. But it transformed what had been a long, rainy day full of broken umbrellas and spilled vodka cranberries into a solemn, tasty observance of duckbread. Furthermore, as someone who loathes forced social interaction and smalltalk, the modest amount of interaction needed to eat at Mozzeria was a pleasant relief. 4 slices!

Overall Sad Time Score

8/10 - In the great pizza vs. Chinese takeout debate, this dish has the potential to be a powerful mediation tool.

Footnotes

* We hope we didn’t inadvertently say something terrible.

** “But Sad Time Pizza,” you might say, “You said you were belligerently drunk!” Pish posh, we say — if there’s one thing that will give us instant precision-control over our motor skills, it’s the prospect of stuffing our faces with pizza, particularly when faced with the additional task of dipping.

Rotten City takes its name from Earl Warren, who once labelled Emeryville, California as “The rottenest city on the pacific coast.” This is in stark contrast to our initial impressions — we’ve noted it’s lack of stuff-density and have been known to call it Bland Town — but it’s a town with some intriguing pizza-consumption opportunities. And besides, what is the Sad Time if not the rottenest time of the month?

Rotten City occupies a two-story building. Orders are taken on the ground floor, with a seeming emphasis being placed on individual slices. There’s a bit of seating downstairs, but not a ton, so we took it upon ourselves to venture upstairs, survey the kingdom, and find a table. Unfortunately, what we encountered was a writhing nest of children, with their defeated, apathetic parents paying no heed as they played precariously at the top of a flight of stairs, screamed, and thrashed pool cues on the ground.*

The only place to sit was a Ms. Pac-Man table at the top of the stairs, sadly non-functioning but slightly removed from the discordant clamor of youth. Unfortunately, there was no escape. It wasn’t long after we sat down that one of the pool-cue-brandishers confronted us, angrily proclaiming that said table was “not a place for adults to sit and drink beer.” The sticky patina on this kid filled us with a visceral revulsion, a feeling that was not abated by his (presumed) father’s benign response.**

It wasn’t the best start to our monthly refuge from the Sad Time, but as luck would have it, all of them had been corralled outside by the time our food arrived.***

We selected their special salumi. Its exact nature changes every day — in that it uses a different variety of salumi — but it’s otherwise a straightforward pizza with cheese, tomato sauce, and red onions. Our meat roulette wheel landed on Toscano.

While we agree that Rotten City’s crust hits many of the right textural notes — in that it’s pliable while maintaining its structural integrity — Boyfriend felt that it was too dry, a contention with which Girlfriend disagreed.**** You can fold it, maul it, and mangle it to your heart’s content, and it retains your desired shape while you cram it into your preferred eating orifice. 

There’s just enough sauce for it to be noticeable. While Boyfriend wished for a bit more flavor from it — and perhaps a bit more moisture — he can’t deny that its light touch aids the composition of the pie. You can bite into this pizza without fear of pulling all the cheese off of your slice, and you can even hold your slice vertically and risk no loss in doing so. 

We both like Rotten City’s Pizza, but we disagree on just how much we like it. And so:

Boyfriend Sez

While Rotten City claims that it uses a blend of mozzarella, provolone, and parmigiano, cheeses, you could have told me that it came from a generic vat labeled “CHEESE” and I would believe you. It’s not that the cheese was bad — it’s cheese, and cheese is one of my great loves — but rather that the cheeses did not distinguish themselves. I feel like the muted nature of provolone may be canceling out the salty goodness of the parmesan, or maybe it’s just a comforting thought I had while wishing for more flavor. 

My criticism of the cheese encapsulates my issue with Rotten City: nothing was bad, but I found myself wanting more. This applies to the crust, the sauce, and the meat, too. The pizza we tried lacked pop, it wanted pizzaz, it yearned for a Riley to its Huey. I went in hoping for some strong flavors and received the pizza equivalent of a limp handshake. But at the same time, I was able to visually discern the strength and potential in that hand, and I know that it’s capable of more.

Which is to say that I’ve have had worse first impressions. Don’t get me wrong: Rotten City’s fundamentals are strong, and it’s for that reason that I will enthusiastically go back — but I’ll try a different pizza next time. 2.5 slices.

Girlfriend Sez

Boyfriend is wrong. Girlfriend will rebut his fallacious claims in the order they appear.

Boyfriend felt that the crust was too dry. I present to you, evidence of it’s oily moistness:

Boyfriend wanted more flavor from the sauce. Perhaps he shouldn’t have encrusted his slices with every dry herb condiment in the general vicinity.*****

Boyfriend thought the cheeses were indistinct. Perhaps a unified taste is what occurs when different flavors pair well together? Perhaps these particular cheeses were selected to be the backup singers that highlight the flavorful talents of our dear friend, salumi?******

Rotten City’s pizza is a foldable sensation — Great on a paper plate, and even better when scarfed from the back of a friend's Westfalia. They even had Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA. O, the beauty! I won’t let the church basement ambiance sully my assessment of this handsome pie.

Boyfriend also failed to mention the most serendipitous omen, in the form of a naturally occurring Sad Slice, glowering up at us with empty peppercorn eyes and a red onion frown:

4.5 Slices

Overall Sad Time Score

7 Slices

“You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.” - Dita Von Teese

Footnotes

* This, incidentally, is one of the reasons why pool cues at bars tend to suck. Carelessness will do it, sure, but parents who let their kids treat pool cues like lightsabers are the enemies of billiard-lovers everywhere.

** Come on, dude. It’s your job to make sure this kid doesn’t grow up to be a prick.

*** We may not have been able to keep the pizza down otherwise. Tiny leaking shrieking people are not conducive to enjoying a meal, especially when they take umbrage with alcohol.

**** Though it is worth noting that she conceded that “it would be nice” to have a side sauce of some kind for crust dipping purposes. HOW CURIOUS.

***** Girlfriend neglects to mention that Boyfriend takes great pains to taste all pizzas with a variety of variables. She selectively took a photo of a slice covered in oregano and parmesan while neglecting to mention that he also had slices with no additional spices, slices with just parmesan, and slices with just oregano. This thoroughness is a manifestation of Boyfriend’s commitment to doing due diligence.

Drake’s Dealership is a beautiful blend of superb beer, above-average pizza, and an extremely compelling outdoor space, making it an ideal destination to celebrate a most auspicious occasion: The anniversary of our friend’s birth. (Alex a.k.a DawgNose on the left and his husband, Chris, on the right)

Drake’s deals in New Haven-style pizza, which as far as we can tell means that it’s shaped like a football and pretty soft. This isn’t a bad thing. The texture of the crust is enormously satisfying — it’s both thin and chewy, making it substantial without being over-filling. The flavor of the crust by itself is admittedly bland, but that together with its thinness serves to accentuate the toppings in a pleasing way. Unfortunately, the crust’s thinness also detracts from the experience, in that it lacks the structural integrity to hold even a small number of toppings without flopping around limply. This makes things messy if you expect your pizza to hold together in anything other than ideal conditions — unless you go in with two hands, you’re gonna get some on yourself.

The pizza at Drake’s also manages to keep its cheese firmly attached to crust when eaten (unlike some others we’ve reviewed) due partially, we suspect, to the thinness of the sauce layer. This thinness is beneficial for reasons beyond keeping the cheese attached to the crust — when tasted in isolation, the tomato sauce tastes like it came straight from a jar of Ragu, so it’s at its best in small doses.

The Lori’s features “capicolla, mission figs, goat cheese, Castelvetrano olives, mozz, tomato sauce.” The sweetness of the figs and saltiness of the capicolla are really pleasing contrasts here, in a sort of Batman-and-Robin/Draper-and-Maltby sort of way. It takes both flavors to an extreme. If the figs are Israel and the Capicolla is Egypt, then the Lori’s is Jimmy Carter. It works, it’s delicious, and is probably underappreciated by the American public, even if the toppings are prone to fall off because the pizza lacks structural integrity.*

The Broadway, which offers “garlic sauce, mozz, roasted butternut, manchego, pepitas” offers a similar contrast with similar results. The butternut squash replaces the figs as the sweet cop here with some smooth, buttery manchego extending the delicious olive branch of peace toward the mozzarella, which reprises its role as the salty loose cannon who nevertheless gets results. The manchego has the benefit of classing up this pizza like a napkin ring on a paper towel, and it almost tastes like it’s melting in your mouth. The squash’s presence is somewhat surprisingly more noticeable than that of the figs in the Lori’s. Maybe this is because of the garlic underlayer — which isn’t immediately identifiable as a sauce, but maybe that’s the point — or maybe it’s the manchego that whips the squash into flavorful frenzy. Regardless, it’s awesome. The pepitas, though, are just kind of there. Which is cool, we guess. (They’re probably that one kid who does all the work on a team project while the rest of the group takes credit.)

The Broadway and Lori’s share the same strengths and weaknesses in regard to the crust — but bitching aside, the pizza is delicious. And while we’re not going to go in-depth on any of the other pies we’ve tried over the course of many visits to Drake’s Dealership, we can say that we’ve been more or less pleased with all of them. We encourage you to order anything from the menu without fear.

We would be remiss if we failed to mention the beer, which is arguably the main draw of Drake’s Dealership. Their offerings run the gamut, though you will do yourself a disservice if you don’t venture into the inky darkness of Black Robusto. The Jolly Rodger imperial coffee porter and Red Eye American red ale also warrant mention.

As good as the pizza and beer are, it’s the space that ties it all together. The indoor seating is fine, but Drake’s Dealership boasts an outdoor courtyard with fire pits and heat lamps, giving you a nice place to enjoy the outdoors even when it’s cold — like the Lori’s and the Broadway, this too is a pleasing lesson in contrasts.

Our only complaint about the atmosphere is that there are almost always children present if you go there before 9 p.m. — but perhaps that is the cost of serving pizza. We find children repellant, but Drake’s is good enough that we’re willing to put up with it — a significant statement, indeed.

Boyfriend Sez

I’m salty about the near-omnipresence of children, but even that is not enough to keep me away from Drake’s Dealership, which has quickly become one of my favorite spots in Oakland. I love the chewiness of the pizza, particularly with its surprising lightness, but I wish it could bear its own weight (which is perhaps an important lesson about not always being able to get what I want). While the flavors on display are not life-changing, it’s worth going out of your way for this pizza; together with the exceptional beer and lovely atmosphere (children notwithstanding), Drake’s Dealership warrants a place in your Sad Time rotation.

4 slices

Girlfriend Sez

Hailing from Connecticut, Girlfriend is no stranger to New Haven-style pizza. She will admit freely that Drake’s has done justice in the retelling of this great classic from her youth (even if sea creatures aren’t represented in their toppings). The inviting, pet-friendly outdoor space replete with adirondack chairs and open flames really sets Drake’s apart from the other pizza-and-beer shows in town, but doesn’t skew into pretentious waters. 

4.5 slices

Overall Sad Time Score

8.5 slices - This little figgy left satisfied.

Footnotes