i had my most defining californian-in-chicago moment last week after the cubs game. my friend amy, who grew up in a northwest chicago suburb, was kind enough to invite me to a cubs game with a couple of her family members and friends. we go, and i manage to impress at least amy and the girl next to her with my double hot-dog and fries chowdown. and then after the game we go to a pizza place.
not any pizza place, mind you. this is a walk-in joint just a few steps from wrigley field, meaning it sees dozens if not hundreds of drunk cubs fans a few times a week (and, let me tell you, no one does drunk like cubs fans. maybe white sox fans). its specialty is pasta pizza, by which i mean pizzas that are topped with pasta dishes: tortellini, mac 'n cheese, chicken alfredo penne. after my hot dog duo, i thought i'd go light with a slice of the asparagus and potato pizza. after a couple of bites, i gave up. my stomach couldn't take it. i tried mightily to give my pizza away, but no one, not even amy's trash-compactor of a brother-in-law, would even touch my slice.
shit. in california, a pizza covered in asparagus and thin slices of yukon gold tater would sound like a spectacular idea, especially for the drunk baseball fan who wants to squeeze some veggies into her ballpark diet. in chicago, i became the pizza leper. i got "eewwwwwwws" in surround sound. it was brutal.
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