Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Rayzor Sharp
I expect I’ve got some of the details wrong, and this time I am likely to get called on it.... but what with my recent trip to the east and a short jaunt through some authentic DC streets, and of course my own perverse mental apparatus, I’ve been having a serious pizza jones lately - and it’s put me in mind of my slice of Original Ray.
I’d been in Philly for three years or so and I’d taken to it well; I felt pretty “east coast” by the time we made, for some reason, a trip to NYC. I don’t remember who-all “we” were, but it was at least one local (or equivalent) and Kel and me. And, of course, the rest of Greenwich Village.
That’s where Famous Original Ray’s is, right? I had barely ever been to the City, had only spent a few hours there before, and everything about it was wrapped in a charismatic mystery for me. I just tried to look it up on line to check the location of this legendary pizza shack and only got more confused, which I guess is thematically consistent. The City is a powerful place; it messed up my sense of direction when I was there. My head spun - sometimes independently of my will. But on this particular trip a plan had been laid that I, the L.A. kid playing at being authentic old-coast, should get a piece of true authenticity: the real famous original veritable unabridged eponymous Ray’s. A slice straight out of a New Yorker’s soul - sweet, tangy, fulfilling.... The city pulsed and throbbed in a kaliedoscope around me, busy and dirty and brilliant, and through it all my companions continually promised me the world - this ‘za was an experience I couldn’t miss and would never forget, I was repeatedly reminded as forgotten hands dragged me through unfamiliar streets.... and suddenly, we were there.
I knew I was in trouble when I saw that the sign actually used the words “famous” and “original.” But rather than being put off by the gaucherie of such shameless self-promotion, I sensed foreboding. This place, I felt, would be my undoing. I would submit to it because there was no other way, but somehow I knew I’d live to regret it.
Inside, the refectory was overtly underdecorated, a bare-bones food factory. People filtered through a line to a counter where they ordered a slice or three with the toppings of their choice, and waited a minute or two for it to be delivered steaming hot and dripping cheese and grease into their waiting hands.
We each worked our way to the counter and I ordered a sausage/onion slice without embarassing myself. Then I stood back among the mass of hungry impatient locals to wait for my order to come up.
The big guy behind the counter called it, and quickly - “sausage slice!” His voice boombarked through the hectic waiting area and I stepped forward, asking with all the moixe I could muster, “that mine?”
“NO! You coming up! Wait fo’ it!,” the pizzaman bellowed at me, as the slice’s rightful owner slipped in to claim his prize. Kel was at my shoulder and peevishly apologized for me: “Oh, he doesn’t understand… He’s from L.A."
Nothing could have been more inflammatory. Heads swivelled to view this curiosity, this monstrosity, this exotic specimen that had almost passed itself off as indigenous. “Oh!,” the pizzaman exclaimed, “that why he so dumb!” People laughed, nodded, pointed. There was not much for me to say in my defense so I stood there gritting and grimacing like a cretin for a few more minutes.
“Hey! L.A.! This one’s yours!”
With the typical minimum of ceremony, the slice flopped into my hand like so much hot envy, thick and piquant on its sheet of wax paper. Amidst the last few giggles at my expense I wormed my way back to the street.
The slice was fine. Not the best I’ve ever had, but good enough. I prefer more sauce, less cheese, and a crust with more personality - but regardless, it was fine. In the end, though, my slice of pizza was not really very memorable. On the other hand, I do still find myself looking back with mixed feelings of amusement and shame upon my fat slice of Original Ray.
