It's Not Called "Pizzaland"

              Gordon Studer

It has recently been brought to my attention just how bad the lion's share of pizza here in Maine really is. A friend of mine who lives here but is from "away" called seeking commiseration, shocked that he had been led astray by his coworkers, all Maine natives, to a place that allegedly made the best in all of Portland. Instead, to his utter dismay, and I quote, "It was the worst pizza of my life--worse than elementary school cafeteria pizza. It's crazy. It's insane!"

The poor Mainers, innocents all. Pity them, do not scorn them! They have never been to Brooklyn, that Mecca of the cheese pie where even a plain slice, dripping with oil, reaches as far down as your elbow before you fold it in half and cram it into your mouth, its rich tomato sauce and tangy mozzarella, adorned with a sprinkling of Parmesan and a smattering of crushed red peppers, defining the very dish. They know nothing of this, so they accept the doughy, pasty round circles piled high with irrelevant morsels of pineapple and bacon and turkey and cauliflower as "pizza."

Who among us is surprised? After all, Maine is not Italy. Nor is it even New York, Chicago or D.C. There is no neighborhood anywhere in Maine called "Little Italy." And while there are people here of Italian descent --there must be-- I have never met any. So when you come to Maine, America's "Vacationland," order lobster. It's best to stick with what they know.