Two slices of heaven

I've been away too long, once again.

The biggest news is of course that it's finally spring around here. Temps should be in the 60s all week, and Beth tells me there's some hope for 70s. Which I think is a bit much for April, but it certainly beats snow.

I just finished and submitted the latest FTM, about which I believe I can't say much, but I will say that the theme is near and dear to my heart.

And speaking of near and dear to my heart, many readers no doubt know about my obsession with pizza, and know that I am not actually exaggerating when I use the word "obsession." I won't get into the details of my pizza woes here in the Midwest, but I will say that I haven't found any decent pizza of the NY style, and so have had to enjoy only Neapolitan pizza, of which there are two excellent sources in the TC, to my knowledge.

But now, as of Saturday, I have a new second home. Not far from the apartment in which Beth and I lived when we first moved out here from the Big Apple is a new pizza place: Hiawatha Pizza. Online rumors claimed this was the real deal, and that the owner and pizzamaker was in fact an ex-New Yorker himself.

You will forgive me for having my doubts.

On Saturday, though, since I have to check out every pizza place at least once, and since a few voices on Chowhound were saying such great things, I decided to drop in for a late lunch. Now, you can't really get a more Minnesota name for your pizzeria than Hiawatha Pizza, and the store front, in the same shopping center as a Cub and a Target, is as bland and Midwest-mall as it could possibly be. Still, I kept my chin up and strode in.

Empty. Of course, it was not exactly peak pizza hours, but I like to see my pizzerias as hangouts. Aside from a group of local teens hanging out on the curb out front, the place was deserted. I went up to the counter, hoping to see the New York City institution of pizza: by-slice-pies, ready to reheat and serve, sitting under glass. No such luck.

A man called out from the back. He had a thick Middle Eastern accent. I recalled someone online saying the place was halal. "What can I get for you?" he asked me.

"Do you have any slices ready?" I asked. He assured me he did. I ordered two and grabbed a can of soda (SODA, not pop) from the fridge case.

After a few minutes, he called me back to the counter, and there they were: thin, big--a sheen of oil floating on their surface. I didn't believe my eyes. My host went to the back to fetch the parmesan sprinkler while I put on some hot pepper flakes. When he returned with the cheese, I partook of that, as well, then took a seat.

After the first bite, I knew. I immediately sent a text a to Beth: I'm at Hiawatha Pizza. And then another, after the second bite: I'm coming here every day. I devoured the pizza and brought the empty tray up to the counter. As my host rang up the purchase, I said, "So you are from New York, huh?"

"How did you know?" he asked, a little suspiciously.

I just pointed at the empty tray.

So finally I've found the real deal, right here. I wish it were a little closer to home, but with spring finally here, and that bike trailer for Sam I've got in the garage, I think a ride over there once or twice a week would do me good--body, mind, and soul.