When I was a little girl, lo these many years, my cousins and I were sitting around one day talking about the food our moms made best.
“My mom makes the best bread,” said one cousin.
“My mom makes the best soup,” said another.
“My mom makes the best fried chicken,” said a third.
I piped up, “My mom’s the best pizza getter!”
And so it goes.
Turns out I’ve inherited the pizza-getting gene from my mother.
Pizza is one of my desert-island foods. Yes, I realize this makes me unbearably American, but in my defense, I grew up in the middle of the United States, in one of the flat states, so I’m lucky that my favorite food isn’t Jello with canned fruit cocktail and shredded carrot in it. It’s bad enough that one of my favorite comfort foods, made by my Grandma Shirley, involves Cheez Whiz, a substance made entirely of petroleum by-products and yellow food coloring #149. But it’s so good!
In the States, pizza can be pretty cheap. There was a pretty good place near my apartment in Takoma Park where you could get a large–that’s American large, people, so I mean LARGE–for about $8 if you picked it up instead of having them deliver it. That’s like giving it away.
In Washington, D.C., you also have the infamous Big Floppy, which sounds dirty (WHAT? Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?!), but is actually just a super ginormous piece of extra greasy delicious pizza goodness that you get at 2 in the morning after you’ve been drinking. It used to cost around $4; you’d have to ask the cool kids back home how much it costs now.
I’ve expatted to BKK, so I don’t feel guilty when I want food that reminds me of home. It’s not like I’m going back in a week (unless other body parts decide to fail and/or explode), so if I don’t eat Thai food for one meal for one day, it’s fine. I’ll eat it the next day. And the next. And the next.
So, one night the thought of putting on pants (I LIVE ALONE, PEOPLE), taking the elevator down 26 floors and scavenging for food from the stalls down the block seemed like way too much effort. Like, the kind of effort that could only be achieved through major amounts of stimulants (For the humor-impaired: THAT IS A JOKE–I DO NOT DO STIMULANTS EXCEPT FOR COFFEE AND EVEN THAT IS ONLY ONE CUP IN THE MORNINGS).
Then this little voice inside my head–Party Megan–said, Order pizza, Megan.
The cheap, responsible, stubborn expat inside my head responded, NO! I will put on pants! I will eat Thai food! I will spend a single dollar for my meal!
Please remember I live alone; internal dialogue is not an uncommon occurrence. External dialogue is not unheard of, either, as a matter of fact.
Party Megan won out because Responsible Megan quit her job back in June and can’t really be bothered to put up much of a fight anymore.
So I ordered pizza online from The Pizza Company. Or I tried to order it online, but of course I ended up having to call them 12 times to get the order to actually go through.
Now, in Japan, pizza was routinely covered in corn. Sometimes there was mayo and tuna on there, too. I know, I know. Just chalk it up to the insanity that spawned crazy Japanese game shows. The Pizza Company in BKK, however, has a million varieties of pizza covered in pineapple. Hawaiian pizza! Tropical pizza! Tropical Hawaiian pizza!
Those of you who know me will know that pineapple with savory food makes me literally want to vomit. NO. Just…no, okay? I’m exhausted just thinking about it. Why would you do that to delicious, defenseless pizza? Or pineapple? What did the pizza or pineapple ever do to you? They just want to make your belly happy. Don’t disrespect them like that!
In the end, I decided to get a medium half cheese and half tom yum, as a nod to my host country, and it cost me about 350 baht, I think, with the delivery fee. That’s more than $10 for that little pizza, and a medium here is like a small–a small small–back home.
The pizza also came with some “sauce”, which I eagerly opened and which turned out to be…kethcup. So disappointing.
The pizza was okay, kind of like a pan pizza from Pizza Hut, which you can also get here. I’d give it a 3/5, and maybe bump it up to 3.5/5 if I was really jonesing for some pizza–which I do often, actually. Luckily Party Megan has not yet completely wrested control, so my bank account is safe for now.
Look, Rest of the World, I know Americans are fat and all, but we really do know how to make amazingly large, delicious, cheap pizzas. I’m proud to be an American for that reason alone.
Ordering Pizza in BKK: 0 Megan: 1
Please, like I couldn’t win this smackdown with both eyes closed. I’m almost embarrassed to call it a challenge.