Dear Grandma,

Okay, forget about that earlier letter. Forget about all the things I was mentioning about going to the Guggenheim and my contempt for the tourists and all that. Remember perhaps that Starbucks makes bad coffee or my thoughts on your translation of "Correspondances" but not if I managed to hurt your feelings in my discussion of the problems with translation as a practice. Remember though that I went to Coney Island and rode the bumper cars about six times yesterday. Here's a photo of my nemesis, a child certainly at least half my age, or rather, far less than half my age because half would be 17 (yikes!). In any event, he seemed to take some perverse pleasure out of crashing into my car especially. It may have had to do with the fact that I started talking a lot of smack after the first time he crashed into me:"Oh, so that's how you want to play it," and that sort of thing.

The important thing I need to discuss with you is pizza. A long narrow place on 8th avenue called Antonios(? — I'm not sure), [Actually, it's Luigi's, 304 8th Ave, btwn. W24th & W25th Streets] something with an A and an I in the name and certainly sounding Italian, although the guy running the place tonight seemed to be of Latin descent. Not that that's any real matter. It's not as though I'm any sort of genealogist, no Henry Higgins I, just thought I'd mention it. There was a sign written on a white paper plate near the front door that gave me a bit of a start though, it said something about a two hot dog special, and I thought oh no, this place has up and started making chicken wings on me. My concern was further aroused when I began to approach the counter and could see that it was laden with a number of pre-packaged items of the junk-food variety. Being that this was outside the bounds of what would and wouldn't cause me to avoid a pizzeria, I was momentarily startled, uncertain. Looking over the menu was a relief to me though. There were an enormous number of items listed there, and at first I was concerned that I was going to be reading a list of foods that ought not be on a pizzeria's menu by my estimation. I thought that I'd be seeing "Buffalo Wings" and "Hamburger" up there, but they were absent from the board. Instead was a long list of items that fit easily within the confines of what I think should or shouldn't be on a pizzeria's menu. All I can remember though is reading "Chicken Marsala" and chicken being served a number of other ways that were all of some demi-Italian origin. I should have photographed that menu, and upon returning perhaps I will. For the time being you'll have to trust me Grandma.

So I was somewhat relieved, and willing to discount the appearance of all the junk food on the counter. Coca Cola isn't made in Italy or Sicily (as far as I know) and I've never balked at that, in spite of the fact that Coke comes bottled and that the Coca Cola corporation has been union busting in a number of third-world countries for years, so I ordered up my two slices. The guy working the counter said "I'll give you two slices from the fresh pie," which I appreciated, but which was going to happen anyway if there was going to be a sale paid for by my money that night. How is it that pizzerias finally get rid of those slices that've been sitting out for too long? Do they send them out with the take out orders? Do they hold onto them and pass them off on the drunks at the end of the night? I think that this requires further investigation.

So he put my two slices in the oven and then took them out shortly, as one would expect. Strangely though, as he went to put them into a box, he neglected to put down a sheet or two of wax paper or whatever that paper is that they put down there on the plates and such. But I didn't figure it would make too much difference, and to be frank, it really didn't.

I had decided that I was going to eat pizza because when I called my friend Thomas to see what he was doing after I was done drinking bad coffee and messing up the plumbing at Starbucks he told me that he was trying to put together a card game and that he and the others at his apartment at the time were about to order some food and did I want anything. Order me something small, I said. Then he called me back mysteriously when I was standing on the S train at Grand Central waiting for it to depart for Times Square.

"We're getting food from BBQ, do you want anything?"

"No."

"Then you're on your own food-wise."

That was fine with me, I new a good pizza joint on 8th Ave not far from Thomas's apartment that I'd been to a bunch of times before. Actually, as I remember it this was the same pizzeria that I'd told Jeni Olin to go to rather than that crap one on 23rd St. right near 8th. Ugh. That place is not so bueno.

So I took my pizza up to Thomas' apartment. He wasn't there but the door was open which wasn't much of a surprise to me. I sat down on the couch making myself comfortable among the detritus. Thomas' housekeeping habits may be surpassed only by those of Grendel, or by that cyclops from the Odyssey surrounding himself with sheep carcasses. I pushed aside whatever was cluttering the coffee table until I could see the wood beneath, and set the box down. At first bite I was a little worried Grandma, because the sauce tasted pretty sweet. Also, bringing it back from the pizzeria in the cold fog and rain hadn't really left the pizza piping anymore. Considering where I was though, I wasn't going to risk my dinner in the oven. The second bite was better: not as sweet, although still somewhat on the sweet side. What I had there was a good slice, no fireworks, but solid. Good cheese, good sauce of the sweeter variety, a crust that could have done to have been cooked for about a minute longer, but was still edible down to the ends. When I finished eating I felt as though I had had a satisfying pizza eating experience.

I hadn't finished eating by the time that Thomas and crew came back from picking up their food at BBQ, I just didn't want to interrupt that last bit I was narrating there. They came over to the table and moved most of whatever else was there and set their food down, their round paper-lidded tins and such. Even though their food smelled good, I didn't at any point regret my decision. The main point that I should mention is that Thomas had also picked up a big bottle of ginger ale and some Pringles potato chips. These were of the pizza-flavored variety. I'm not going to try to get into some sort of review here comparing and contrasting them to real pizza, except to say that I have no real idea in what way these were supposed to be pizza-related. I don't think they tasted like pizza at all.

Now Grandma maybe you would like to know why I ever lowered myself to eating pizza-flavored Pringles (actually the flavor is Pizzalicious). The fact of the matter is that I tried them because I like Pringles in general. I did manage to stop myself from eating more than about ten of them, which as you may know is something of a feat considering that one of the primary ingredients of Pringles has got to be MSG. Nonetheless, perhaps you're right Grandma. Perhaps I shouldn't have ever even taken off the air-tight seal. Hopefully you can see your way clear to forgiving me, even if I have committed an act which might only serve to shame our family name. At least that would be what I might hope for if 1) I actually had the same last name as you, and 2) you didn't live in Toronto where one can buy ketchup-flavored potato chips in most small stores. Not to mention the fact that pizza in Toronto has never been very good to me, but perhaps that's a matter that we'll cover in the Fall if I can make it up to see you , as I hope I'll be able to.

Much love,

David