Unlike the rest of the Doctors of Za, who came from places with exotic names like “Milwaukee,” “La Crosse,” “Menasha”, and later ended up at UW-Oshkosh, I was actually brought up in Oshkosh’s fertile crescent of booze, boats and substandard housing, and then stayed in town to go to the university where the Doctors of Za first started our mating rituals. So when that pill-head T-Mario starts telling you how Oshkosh has only three great pizza places—Cranky Pat’s (which is just expensive frozen pizza), West End Pizza (which is named as such because you leave the end of your anus in the toilet after you eat it, and anuses flush in a westward direction) and Ratch & Debs (I lived in literal walking distance from here for 17 years and never ate it, so I guess it could be good)—I feel I’m the only doctor than can set that fool straight. Read more »

http://www.williamsburgnypizza.com/
649 GRAND STREET
BROOKLYN, NY 11211
(Manhattan Ave. & Leonard Street)

Going back to New York was exciting. Going back to Williamsburg was equally exciting. Despite seeing the most ridiculous looking kids as soon as we got onto Metropolitan I was excited to be able to eat at some of my favorite places, San Loco, Relish, Taco Chulo, and Jerry’s Pizza. Just kidding. I’d never heard of Jerry’s Pizza before.

Red Knife Lottery and I were on the hunt for pizza. My previous journey to Tony’s was a solo mission and Ashley “wanted fucking pizza.” We met up with friends Atlas Moth (who got a burger named after them at Kumas) outside of Union Pool where they were playing later that night. Nobody was familiar with the area except myself and instead of giving some sort of direction we walked around basically aimless. After a good 10 or so blocks getting out of Williamsburg and slowly making our way into Greenpoint we stumbled across a Papa Johns and made a lot of jokes. Then, another block later, we discovered Jerry’s across the street.
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I used to have a long-running argument with an ex-friend about how, while pizza as we know it may have been “created” in America, it wasn’t inaccurate to call it Italian, because it was the Italian immigrants who made it here, not those dirty potato eating Irish. But he was stupid, so he said it didn’t matter that Italians in America made it, it was only American cuisine. Apparently his definition of what makes food of a certain culture is similar to how South American countries view territory disputes (look that shit up, I don’t have time to explain that metaphor here).

Why did I bring up a fight I had with a douche I don’t even talk to any more? Well, because Pizza di Roma, one of the less reputable pizza joints on Madison’s State Street, unlike about every other pizza place in Madison save Paisan’s, is 100% about referencing Italy. I mean, they’ve got Roma in the fucking name. Plus a prerequisite to working there seems to be that you have to be Italian (or at least Mexican) and have a love of hair oil and Italian soccer team t-shirts. Which probably makes Pizza di Roma the most authentic pizza joint in all of Madison. That is if you have a logical definition of what makes for “authentic” Italian pizza. Read more »

http://www.pizzasola.com
1417 E Carson St
Pittsburgh, PA
(412) 481-3888

I’ve never been to Pittsburgh before but Chris from Red Knife Lottery spent months in the place. When I was out with them on a short tour I asked for his expert advice when looking for a pizza joint. He didn’t know. I then looked toward the locals for a hint. Brandon, a good friend and drummer from Pittsburgh hardcore band Girl Fight, highly recommended Pizza Sola. We had already been drinking at Dee’s bar which was only a few short blocks away so I gathered some friends and we headed down.
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I have no reason to love Cranky Pat’s Pizzeria – but I do.

As a college student, I was one of the Oshkosh location’s inaugural cooks. It was a fun enough college job, and I worked with a group of great people. But I was also laid off during the holidays and routinely sent home an hour into my shift to save a few bucks; I reeked of oregano after every work day; I was scheduled to cook for Town Motel prostitutes and tactless frat rejects on the weekend night shift (6 p.m. to 4 a.m.) when I could’ve otherwise been getting shitfaced or having unprotected sex with my pro-choice then-girlfriend.

I was eventually fired from my $7.00/hr job at Cranky’s a scheduling oversight, thus ending a smelly, often frustrating, but unforgettable period of my life. I wouldn’t do it again, but I’m happy I worked there both for the memories it provided and – more so – for the opportunity to regularly stuff myself on the Fox Valley’s best pizza.
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