Through the noise and delightfully drunken chaos of the crowded room, I notice a swaying, stumbling man stand from his seat, and sprint sideways toward the front. Spitting enthusiastically and tripping over his ankles, he casts his spaghetti arms into the air, shakes them loosely, and shrieks out an emphatic, "WOOOOO!"
No, he didn't just win the lottery.
No, the Orioles didn't take the World Series.
It's much better than all that. He's wasted. And his Maria D's pizza order is ready.
I watch him scoop up his plate and stuff his face like a champion eater (think Takeru Kobayashi). Stopping only for sporadic gulps of oxygen and random yells to his band of drunken cohorts. He finishes four slices in record time.
A few minutes later, significantly sobered from his pizza bender, he noticed me sitting quietly alone at a table in the back, taking pictures for this review. He stands and wanders back with his buddies, who swarm my table like wasps. To say the few moments of silence that followed were awkward is an understatement. In fact, I think sand in my bikini is more comfortable.
Maybe I stood out because I was the only person who had more blood than alcohol coursing through my veins. It also could have been the fact that I was without a tanked posse or maybe I just had a giant zit on my nose -- I had no idea.
Then it hit me like a shot of Bacardi 151 -- I was taking pictures of a piece of pizza. True, to a food reviewer, this act seems normal. But, when some drunken partiers notice a girl sitting alone in front of a giant tripod, digital camera aimed carefully at a greasy $1 subject, I suppose it's understandable to wonder if she's not all there.
After explaining myself, and being scorned by the regulars for dabbing the slice ("You're a sinner!"), I took a bite. It was tasty -- but I think I could have started a car engine on the grease that dripped off a single slice. The rest of the menu -- subs and other deep-fried delights -- is equal in its oily, anti-health goodness. I will say, however, that if I had had a few drinks in me, I would have revered it in the same way as the mass of artery-clogged, soon-to-be heart attack victims around me.
Dish: The menu has endless options, from subs to spaghetti, crab cakes and assorted poultry dinners, but no one can tell you anything about them because nobody eats anything but the pizza. Honestly, I'd bet an organ that if you tried to order the fried chicken, you'd get a dirty look, followed by a, "we're actually out of chicken today, but may we suggest the pizza?"
Damage: Pretty much everything on the menu is less than $10 and the pizza is served by the slice or by the pie. I went for a slice of cheese at $1.90 and a soda for $2, leaving my tab at a whopping $3.90. My roommate opted for the supreme-style pizza which was $2.75 a slice and a water for $1. That's less than a Happy Meal! Plus, you get to watch drunk people yell at each other, which, in my book, constitutes endless hours of fun.
Decision: Maria D's was packed with enamored customers who, even an outsider could tell, totally dug the place. But people dig Disneyland, too, and everybody still staggers off the Zipper covered in barf nuggets. I'm not saying you have to be trashed, but if you choose to dive into this endless fountain of grease sober, I would definitely suggest some prescription blood thinners and sleeping with your butt facing an open window.
No, he didn't just win the lottery.
No, the Orioles didn't take the World Series.
It's much better than all that. He's wasted. And his Maria D's pizza order is ready.
I watch him scoop up his plate and stuff his face like a champion eater (think Takeru Kobayashi). Stopping only for sporadic gulps of oxygen and random yells to his band of drunken cohorts. He finishes four slices in record time.
A few minutes later, significantly sobered from his pizza bender, he noticed me sitting quietly alone at a table in the back, taking pictures for this review. He stands and wanders back with his buddies, who swarm my table like wasps. To say the few moments of silence that followed were awkward is an understatement. In fact, I think sand in my bikini is more comfortable.
Maybe I stood out because I was the only person who had more blood than alcohol coursing through my veins. It also could have been the fact that I was without a tanked posse or maybe I just had a giant zit on my nose -- I had no idea.
Then it hit me like a shot of Bacardi 151 -- I was taking pictures of a piece of pizza. True, to a food reviewer, this act seems normal. But, when some drunken partiers notice a girl sitting alone in front of a giant tripod, digital camera aimed carefully at a greasy $1 subject, I suppose it's understandable to wonder if she's not all there.
After explaining myself, and being scorned by the regulars for dabbing the slice ("You're a sinner!"), I took a bite. It was tasty -- but I think I could have started a car engine on the grease that dripped off a single slice. The rest of the menu -- subs and other deep-fried delights -- is equal in its oily, anti-health goodness. I will say, however, that if I had had a few drinks in me, I would have revered it in the same way as the mass of artery-clogged, soon-to-be heart attack victims around me.
Dish: The menu has endless options, from subs to spaghetti, crab cakes and assorted poultry dinners, but no one can tell you anything about them because nobody eats anything but the pizza. Honestly, I'd bet an organ that if you tried to order the fried chicken, you'd get a dirty look, followed by a, "we're actually out of chicken today, but may we suggest the pizza?"
Damage: Pretty much everything on the menu is less than $10 and the pizza is served by the slice or by the pie. I went for a slice of cheese at $1.90 and a soda for $2, leaving my tab at a whopping $3.90. My roommate opted for the supreme-style pizza which was $2.75 a slice and a water for $1. That's less than a Happy Meal! Plus, you get to watch drunk people yell at each other, which, in my book, constitutes endless hours of fun.
Decision: Maria D's was packed with enamored customers who, even an outsider could tell, totally dug the place. But people dig Disneyland, too, and everybody still staggers off the Zipper covered in barf nuggets. I'm not saying you have to be trashed, but if you choose to dive into this endless fountain of grease sober, I would definitely suggest some prescription blood thinners and sleeping with your butt facing an open window.
