Life in slices: it all begins in an elevator with a stranger and a pizza that may or may not have been soggy.

I’m riding up in the hotel elevator with a woman who’s carrying a flat, white box that says, “Stoner’s Pizza Joint.” I ask her if the pizza was any good. She smiles. “I don’t know. I haven’t tried it yet. I just had it delivered.” I mistakenly assumed she was coming from dinner with her leftovers. And I say, “Well, it might be pretty good. Who knows pizza better than a stoner?”
 
She laughs. “Exactly what I thought!” What I don’t say is that Stoner’s is a franchise operation with about 50 outlets nationwide, mainly in the east. I’m guessing the pizza is probably good but not great. It's been steaming inside that box for a while, so it's probably soggy. I don’t eat much delivery pizza. I have a simple system and can make a far better pizza at home with minimal hassle. But...why would I piss on her pizza? It’s so antisocial--and so social normal. 

Food is an emotionally-loaded topic for all people for all reasons. I know people who have some crazy food issues that make no sense to me. All I can think is, Wow. You’re missing some fantastic eating out there because you’ve boxed yourself in with steak, potatoes and pasta.
 
But I’m not going to piss on their predilections. I don’t win anything from it. 
 
Meanwhile, I’m the guy on the street in Mexico who says to my guide, “Hey, that man with the galvanized buckets. Is he selling fried grasshoppers? Yes? Get him back here!” I also know that right now, there are people who received this in an email who are recoiling in disgust and pounding on the unsubscribe button.
 
But you know what they’re not doing? Telling me about it.
 
I admit, I’m not without my opinions. When appropriate, I’m very clear that my preferred pizza styles are American—not Neapolitan. I’d much rather have a pizza from Pepe’s in New Haven or Lombardi’s in New York than one from any place I’ve eaten in Naples.
 
But I understand why people like the Naples pizza. We have to acknowledge it. Even if we do feel a little sad about it and maybe secretly condescending.
 
There’s even a school of thought to which I subscribe that says the original Neapolitan pizza was more like what is served in New Haven today than in Naples. That’s because New Haven pizza happened at the hands of insular Neapolitan immigrant community in the early 20th century.
 
By comparison, the standards for AVPN certified pizza are only about 20 years old. Prior to that, pizza in Naples was like a wild spaghetti western where they didn’t need no stinking standards. 
 
But so what?
 
I think it’s a fun historical possibility that the wayward ancestor to pizza lives on in a little corner of Connecticut that was once populated by immigrants from pizza’s birthplace.
 
But it’s not like I’m going to enter into the fight about whose pizza is better. What do I win?
 
Is it somehow satisfying to my soul to sit at my computer screen and going into pizza social saying, “I’ll show them!” and pissing on someone’s favorite something?
 
You’d never do it in person, would you?
 
Would you stand in a hotel elevator with a person carrying a greasy bag from McDonald’s and say, “That’s disgusting. They have a better burger at Burger King, and you can make a much better burger than either at home.”
 
Of course not.
 
That would be anti-social.
 
And who would really know pizza better than a stoner? My money’s on anyone with a decent palate who isn’t stoned. I don’t imagine that stoners make either the best culinary or business decisions.
 
But it would be antisocial to open that pizza box and piss on the pie.
 
What I should’ve done was handed her a Free The Pizza business card and said, “Let me know how you liked that pizza. I’m curious. I have a professional interest in the outcome, and I might write about you and your elevator pizza.”
 
It’s weird, and she’d probably think I’m making a pass at her. My wife would probably find it amusing. And it would make a far better story in social media than how I informed a stranger of their poor choices in pizza.
 
But anti-social media would have had a field day. All those sad little people pissing on other people’s pizzas.
 
Oh, well.
 
48 hours after that slice of life in the elevator, we were at a friend’s house, slinging pies in a Gozney Dome S1. It was fun. I’d never used the S1. I’d brought the dough I used in my home oven, so experimenting with the Gozney was required.
 
The first pizza was OK. Pretty, but little floppy. I was able to geek tweak the oven, and the second pizza was far better, as was the third.
 
Moreover, it helped my friend (who’s new to pizza making) better understand how to use his oven to produce the kind of pizza he was looking for.
 
The next morning, I was giving him some tips that I thought would be useful, as well as a new dough recipe that would probably produce a better result.
 
He said, “The first pizza was pretty good. The second pizza was definitely better. And so was the third. But you know what? I liked all of them. Because it was all pizza.”
 
Because it was all pizza.
 
Neither of us is going to argue about that.
 
And I admit, I’m still curious about the pie from Stoner’s. Why? Because—despite the fact that I’ll probably never order one—it’s still pizza. Yay!

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​A lot of big-time professional artisan pizza makers once made their first pizza in a home oven just like yours. You can do it, too. My weird little award-winning book is one way to make it so. The book is about how to get from zero to pizza using the oven you already have. Besides learning to make great pizza, there’s not much else you can do with it. In fact, you can’t even use it to level a table leg if you buy the Kindle edition (which is less expensive than the print editions and has links to instructional videos and printable kitchen worksheets). To learn more about Free The Pizza: A Simple System For Making Great Pizza Whenever You Want With The Oven You Already Have, click here. ​