You may not be aware, but as young Americans, we have an international reputation that precedes us. It has nothing to do with George Bush, Iraq or the economy, and everything to do with pizza.
In my travels abroad, every time I sat down at the dinner table, my host would issue an apology. ‘I’m sorry,’ he or she would say, ‘We’re not having pizza for dinner.’
This surprised me at first. Especially in France, why would I want to eat pizza? I went abroad to try new things, expand my horizons, push my limits -‘- especially when it came to food.
Soon the apology became annoying, as I realized that thanks to movies and television, most foreigners truly imagine that everything we eat comes in a cardboard box delivered to our doorstep. And they cite pizza, along with hamburgers, Coca-Cola and peanut butter when frowning at our obesity. Horror of horrors to the French is ketchup. They just can’t comprehend that runny red stuff we slather over everything.
On the one hand, I am ashamed that junk food is considered ‘traditional American cuisine,’ but on the other hand I refuse to concede that pizza is junk. I think the French don’t know what they’re missing. Pizza is good.
Especially in Boston, excellent pizza is easy to find. First, try Emma’s, a whimsical hole-in-the-wall near Kendall Square Cinema that’s been slicing pies since the ’60s when a grouchy old lady, Emma, opened a tiny pizza counter and developed the recipe for her famous, cracker-crisp crust. Their toppings make the pizza unconventional, with combinations such as cranberry, spinach and goat cheese, or sweet sausage, basil and ricotta. Best of Boston awards plaster the wall.
Then there’s Pizzeria Regina, in the North End, where you don’t want to visit on a cold night, because the line to be seated always stretches out the door and down the sidewalk. When you get inside, though, you’ll forget how cold your fingers were. The huge doughy slices, laden with toppings, demand a fork and knife. The restaurant dates to the 1920s, and it’s so Italian that you almost expect to meet The Godfather coming around the corner.
Last but not least, there’s the Pizza Pie-er, nearby on Massachusetts Avenue, a more conventional but still delicious place that delivers. If you’re brave, you’ll try the walnut spread in lieu of sauce, made from ground walnuts, Parmesan, garlic and olive oil. Trust me.
And these are only three. Boston alone, forgetting the 49 other pizza-filled states, could give some of the foreign food I’ve tasted a run for it’s money.
One thing’s for sure: traveling abroad brings you home just a little prouder to be American. Our country is defined by its mixture of many cultures, thus ‘traditional American food’ is as diverse as Americans themselves. But if foreigners insist on believing that all we eat is pizza, they should at least taste some of the good stuff. I’m proud of pizza, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
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