A blogger has taken up the challenge of eating and review-blogging of every slice pizza place in Manhattan called Slice Harvester. He's just passed the year mark.
Me, I am a pizza-holic. If it's near me, I've probably already eaten it. I'm a pizza snob too, real pizza too, not this dessert/haute cuisine stuff either. I completely agree with the blogger, who writes in his first post:
"I am going to eat a slice of pizza at every pizzeria in New York City. I'm going by neighborhood, starting in Manhattan, getting a plain slice at every place. I am fucking sick of the current trend in Pizza Journalism that's all ... artichoke guacamole tahini pizza on rice dough. That shit isn't pizza. Sorry. The only instances where "not pizza" actually is pizza are Zante's in San Francisco on like, 27th and Mission that makes Indian Pizza, and the Turkish Pizza places in Berlin. The rest of it, not pizza. Brie cheese with prosciutto bits and a horseradish mustard, cooked to perfection on flat dough in a hot oven? Sounds delicious, not pizza."
I'm always questing for a good slice, and I loved their gigantic selection and the massive size of some slices. And take a look at this map and see Manhattan is in this incredible pizza joint trifecta of Long Island and New Jersey.
So far he's tracked only two 'perfect slices'
Another recent post features a recounting of a tale from the blogger about touring in Alabama with a rock band and a place called The Hot Spot. His bandmate is stopped by police in 'bama, but walks away with this tale, which prompts a real test of perception too.
"So we were like, "WHAT HAPPENED?!"
And he goes, "Well, he asked for my ID, and I handed it to him and said, 'yessir,' and he goes, 'I didn't know you Maryland boys had an accent?' And I said, 'well I'm a Southern man just like yourself.' And he says, 'Well what're you doin' drivin' around in a New York van?' and I told him I was on tour with a rock'n'roll band and I had moved up to New York cause there ain't much rock'n'roll in Maryland. And he asked what we sing about and I said, 'you know, rock'n'roll things. Fallin' in love... hatin' your boss... America.' And he said I seemed like a nice boy and got the judge on the phone and told him I shouldn't get charged with the full felony hit and run because it was all obviously a big mistake and that I should probably just do something I could settle up over the phone or through the mail because I had a rock'n'roll tour to finish."
So anyway, I have something of an affinity for places called the Hot Spot. I also realize typing it out that more than anything this story just highlights what kind of shit you can get away with if you have white skin privilege in our racist society. I don't think that it cheapens the story or the moment or the cool and clever way my buddy talked his way out of a jam, but I do think it's too glaring not to at least mention. I don't want to be the kind of person that just coasts through the world with no acknowledgment of the privileges I benefit from. Maybe for homework all my readers can think about a way they've benefited from privilege at some point, whether it be class privilege, gender privilege, skin privilege, and just reflect on what that says about the world."