Gentlemen, A-Pizza!

Many, many, many moons ago, while working at a mom-and-pop shop called Pet Nosh, an oh-so-vital decision was called for each and every day at approximately the noon hour: “What are we going to have for lunch?” When the owner, Rich, was on the scene, he would dutifully recite the alternatives, which ranged from deli sandwiches to burgers to pizza. The latter and popular option always merited a distinct query: “Do you want to get a-pizza?” The “a-pizza” was enunciated in an exaggerated Italian accent with the “a” more-or-less silent.

As with countless other words, dialects, and sounds, Rich relished saying, “a-pizza!” Among our many customers at the time was a bona fide Italian guy from the old country, who raised parakeets. In his exaggerated Italian accent—the genuine article—the man would regularly request “a fifty-pound bag of para-KEET”—with the emphasis on the last syllable. In the rough and tumble of the retail frontier—where you repeatedly encounter the same people with their singular idiosyncrasies—it was not surprising that “para-KEET” assumed a life of its own. It was fun to say for a spell and Rich, more than anyone else, ended up with “para-KEET” on the brain and on a recurring loop on his tongue.

I vividly remember this saleswoman setting up a then state-of-the-art—now extinct—credit card machine for the store. Rich and I were the only others inside at the time. Hovering quietly nearby, he suddenly let loose with a very loud and pronounced “para-KEET!” Assuming it was directed at her—nobody else was around after all—the saleswoman pivoted, but immediately determined that Rich was there but not there. The “para-KEET” cry—whatever it represented—remained a perplexing mystery to her as she returned to the job-at-hand.

Back to “a-pizza”: While in Manhattan this weekend, I recalled another seemingly trivial moment from the past. For some unknown reason, my brothers and I found ourselves at a pizza place in the Dunwoodie section of Yonkers. We ordered a whole pizza to eat inside and the owner told us to have a seat and relax. He would personally bring the pie to our table when it was ready. And the proprietor did just that, presenting it to us as such: “Gentlemen, a-pizza!” Some thirty years later, I’m happy to report that the shop still exists. There’s something uplifting about neighborhood pizza shops that adapt, endure, and thrive through changing times, tastes, and demographics.

Speaking of “a-pizza,” I see that the phrase pays homage to the Italian “Neapolitan” immigrants responsible for bringing pizza to American shores. It seems uniquely attached to the style of pizza made famous in New Haven, Connecticut, the kind with the thin, oblong, and charred appearance. Whatever, I encountered a variety of pizza joints in my recent travels that ranged from a place called “Artistic Pizza” to “99 Cents Fresh Pizza” to “Ben’s Pizzeria,” dubbed “The Most Famous Pizza In The World.” The dollar pizza place had a fresh pie in its window that looked pretty tasty and worth the bargain price. But looks can sometimes be deceiving. While these establishments didn’t appear to be technically “a-pizza,” by Rich’s definition they very definitely were. I even passed by a pizza shop with a sign that said, “No mascara…no entry.” Spanish for “mask,” I reckon.

The Little Caesar’s guy says, “Pizza…pizza!” I say, “A-pizza…a-pizza!” with the “a” silent. And, all the while, I remember when…

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)