I still have trouble figuring out exactly where Milwaukee’s Historic Third Ward ends and Walker’s Point begins. I’ve deduced that I’ve probably entered Walker’s when things get just a bit shittier looking, when the crumbling brick facades of no-longer-functional factories become slightly more prevalent, when the faint sound of boxcar hobos ironically singing acapella versions of Rick Astley songs hangs delicately in the dingy metropolitan air. And there are probably signs too.

Besides that, landmarks like the continually steaming manhole outside Solid Gold Gentleman’s Club, the Allen Bradley clock tower and the always delicious Conjito’s serve as apt indicators of Walker’s Point presence to wide-eyed Northwoods hayseeds like myself. But in terms of Pizza Topography, Marchese’s Olive Pit is — bar none — the neighborhood’s highest point of elevation.
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Josh Rank is a friend of the site.

About half our writers know him; I think Sto Cazzo briefly lived with him, and I can vaguely remember drunkenly playing Silver Strike Bowling against him the same night I got lost in downtown Milwaukee and puked immediately after trying to jump a parking meter (or something similar to a parking meter).

But he’s not just a DoZ friend. He’s also a hell of a writer. Since day one, we have linked his blog, These Things I Know, which is equal parts hilarious and insightful. And earlier this year, he self-published his first book, Reflection in the Crosswalk, a story of a 15-year-old boy’s death and the impact it has on a small town.

The former Appleton and Milwaukee resident now lives in Atlanta. He was gracious enough to write a guest review of a pizzeria in his neighborhood. It is below.
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Riverwest. It, with South Milwaukee, remains one of the few regional mysteries yet to be thoroughly explored in my still scant inhabitation of the City of Festivals.

I once met with a publisher at a coffee haus on Humboldt, I went to a few shows in the neighborhood, bought an $8 pair of grey slacks at ReThreads that leave no questions in regard to the exact contours of my cock’n'balls, and that’s about it.

Apart from those three things, I’ve learned that all the crustpunkers I know live or routinely hang there, Ronnie got mugged in Riverwest a few years back and Lakefront Brewery began there. Basically, I know shit about it. And after my inaugural Riverwest meal at NYPD, something tells me I probably need not investigate it much further.
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The square mile around Milwaukee’s famed Brady Street plays host to its fair share of pizzerias.

Zaffiro’s straight up owns the Eastside (motive for burning down Pizza Man?). Crisp offers douchetanks tasty slices and club music at bar time — same goes for Pizza Shuttle (minus the club music and plus red Gatorade in the soda fountain). Even Zayna’s is tasked with serving up hot za, fried corn nuggets and Lo-Carb Monster to drunken local pariahs.

Then there’s Meglio Pizzeria, tucked away down Humboldt Avenue in, what pretty much looks like, a house near the banks of the ever-brown, used-Band Aid strewn Milwaukee River. Meglio’s less-than-unshitty location combined with its fairly truant MKE pizza presence and overriding awkwardness makes it the Daniel Baldwin of Eastside pizza joints. Or was it Billy Baldwin? See what I mean!?!
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It's somewhere in this fucker.

Eau Claire is known for many things — La Crosse Lager, the mighty Chippewa Falls, UW-Whitewater and the Minnesota Twins, to name just a few.

Okay, so Eau Claire isn’t known for shit… except being annoyingly far away from everywhere else, and Bon Iver’s falsetto occasionally echoing out from the woods.

But, as I found when I paid Eau Claire my innaugral visit recently, Pizza Del Re is pretty alright too.
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Yep, I ate here.

It is one of the great ironies of Wisconsin pizza patronage that things that are taken as pizza law elsewhere–that crust should never be able to compared to any cracker (except Carson Daly), that sauce should not be the consistency of the stuff on spaghetti, that pizza should be fluffy yet crispy, not taste like it was microwaved and be made with the best ingredients–are treated as optional here. Which explains how I found myself in a basement restaurant in Minneapolis’ warehouse district at noon on Easter Sunday, eating in a place that can be easily described as “stainless-steel-friendly,” surprised as shit that the pizza was melting my face off for its awesomeness.

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Greenville: Pizza Mecca of Earth?

Spectators Sports Bar & Grill (W6165 Greenville Dr., Greenville, WI) is a place I’d driven by numerous times, but never thought I’d have a reason to stop by.

For one, it’s in Greenville, which one usually only happens upon when looking for discount Wasabi Peas, or when given bogus directions to the Fox River Mall. Secondly, the bar looks, from the outside at least, to be the type of place where Jager Bombs are considered “new” and unlicensed T-shirts bashing Brett Favre are routinely sold.

But fate, hunger and a tri-generational meeting of Mario (except not an alias) family males recently brought me to Spectators for the first time. There, I learned 1. Spectators is actually kind of a badass bar, 2. My grandpa is a dirty and hilarious old man, 3. Puerto Rican sluts on the rag are delicious (the shot isn’t bad either), 4. The secluded country bar’s pizza is that of wet dreams.
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Life is a game of give and take.

It’s difficult to recognize pleasure without first experiencing pain. People everywhere (except Michigan) brave the highways each morning to drive to a jobs they hate, just so they can support their lifestyles and provide security for loved ones. Any guy who’s ever seen a Hugh Grant movie probably did it for the Hanj (or better) he assumed may follow said sacrifice.

And in the case of Milwaukee’s newest place of pizza pie purveyance, Crisp Pizzabar & Lounge, one of the area’s better and higher quality wood fire pizzas in Milwaukee comes with the attached toll of being housed within one of the most overtly douchebaggish restaurant concepts ever.
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Not Jeff and/or Jim at all.

Eau Claire, Wisconsin is famous for so many things, you guys. Like…. Well, that dude from Bon Iver is from there. I heard he’s a cool guy. Also, Eau Claire is the last place to take a decent shit between there and Wausau or Madison. Seriously, just try taking a shit in Thorpe. Good luck, you poor unfortunate soul. Your anus will never forget the Thorpedo. Eau Claire’s fame is basically unfuckwithable, I’m saying.

At any rate, I recently found myself sequestered in the environs of Eau Claire’s bosom, visiting my parents (who don’t live there), my cousin (who doesn’t either), and my aunt and uncle (who do). And because I wanted to “see” what Eau Claire “had to offer” in terms of “pizza,” my cousin and I ventured to the “hip” part of Eau Claire (Waters Street, y’all) to eat at a pizza place called Jeff & Jim’s. I was informed by my cousin that Jeff and Jim were not gay lovers (at least as far as he knew), and they had a falling out at some point, which led Jim to change his name to Jimbo and move to Chippewa Falls and open his own pizza place. It’s like Eau Claire’s civil war or something. Read more »

Kind of badass.

Simply stated, there are just certain places you shouldn’t good to get certain things.

Think about it; when you want sushi, you don’t rush to a mini mall in a town of 5,000. I’d advise against venturing to either Dakota if you’re specifically searching for a hot piece of tail (though I once made out with a cute chick from Fargo). Families don’t, or at least shouldn’t, caravan to Washington D.C. just to see “a good baseball game”–even if they live in the D.C. area. In that same vein, very few people go to gas stations with the sole intention of getting a hot slice of pizza. But regional convenience store chain Kwik Trip (of selling milk in bags fame) not only stocks a myriad of pre-made Cheese Mountain Pizza beneath their heat lamps, they really, really push them on people. 

But somehow, I’d managed to resist the the onslaught of radio ads, TV commercials and in-store advertising that makes Avatar seem under-publicized by comparison. Maybe I wasn’t ready to have my mind blown. Maybe I didn’t feel as if I deserved to try Cheese Mountain Pizza. But probably, it was because they look fucking disgusting.
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