From Iceland — An Open Letter To The Pizza King

An Open Letter To The Pizza King

Published September 26, 2008

An Open Letter To The Pizza King

Dear Pizza King,
    First, I would like to thank you for your excellent commitment to serving us, your humble peasants, over the past few years. You have consistently and continually been there for me: in times of trouble, through every trial and tribulation, every drunken binge, each and every case of the munchies, I have always been able to rely on your cheesy, greasy solution to life’s mysteries. And I still am. I think I speak for each and every one of us when I say: kudos to you, Pizza King.
    That said, I have a few gripes that I want to send your way. Before you read this, you should remember that I cherish you dearly, and I think your contribution to our young society is a remarkable one: a labour of unfettered love and passion of which we are barely worthy. So my comments should be read as a child’s plea to a beloved, alcoholic parent, a prayer to a vengeful God – or Mel Gibson’s ‘The Passion of the Christ‘, if you will. It is not despite my love for you that I dare bring complaints to the throne room of the Pizza King, it is because of it.
    Listen. Even though your commitment to serving comfort food to a starving public at ludicrous hours of the day is laudable – and even though a specific blend of your oily, greasy, oily garlic oil and surprisingly spicy chili powder will make just about anything taste pretty good – I still believe that you need to re-think some of your strategies. Specifically, you need to re-imagine what it takes to make and serve top-notch slices of pizza at prices that can’t be beat. You need to look back at where you came from, before you were crowned the Pizza King, before you were even a Pizza Prince. Seek out your roots; go back to the time when you were just another street-smart, Pizza-nobody with a hunger in your eyes and everything to prove.
    Now, let’s examine for a minute how you can accomplish this. I have taken the liberty of compiling a list of items that you should consider, and have numbered them for your convenience. Some of them are grievances of friends and acquaintances that I am kindly passing on, whilst others are based on my own observations and thoughts. I would like you to ponder the following points for the next few days, as you seek your roots and reclaim your glory:
1) Always bake a pizza all the way through
This should be obvious, especially when you find yourself eating a half-baked clump of sauce-covered wheat that leaves you feeling like you ate a fucking brick. Us customers won’t mind the extra wait.  
2) Turn down that crappy music
Nobody crowned you Disco King; we come there to eat.
3) Play music that is less crappy
This should be obvious. If you switch, you could even turn it up a notch.  
4) Contrary to popular belief, less isn’t always more
No, sometimes more is more – especially if you’re making pizza. After a careful, scientific examination, a panel of EU bureaucrats has put the standard pepperoni/slice ratio at 3:1 – and the system works; they are right. That said, I could sometimes forgive a 2:1 ratio, if the pepperoni in question are especially large, but never a 1:1 ratio like you seem to favour. That’s just plain insulting.
5) Throw away stale pizza
The product you’ve built your kingdom upon is a time sensitive one. If a given slice of pizza has spent over two hours in your heater-box thing, you throw it away and make a new one. THROW IT AWAY. This is not an option: this is a rule. A Pizza King is thus crowned because he is beloved by his people, his people will in turn love him if they can rely on him for good, fresh pizza every single time. I swear, Pizza King, if you serve me one more slice of stale pizza, I will write you an open letter in a widely distributed magazine and deride you for it. Again.
    Dear Pizza King. I hope you are not offended at me for writing you this letter, for pointing out what could be better. I sincerely hope I have not incurred the wrath of the Pizza King. Please, do not oust me from your Shangri-La of grease, your Elysian Fields of white wheat, your oily Manna.
    I love you, man.

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Enough. Stop. Now.

Enough. Stop. Now.


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