In Praise of Pizza Hut

Well, my recent column on 𝘋𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘺 𝘘𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 in the ‘burg seemed to bring back a lot of good memories for people, so let’s try it this time with “The Hut”, or “Pizza Slut” as we less-than-mature boys used to call it.

     Once again, another odd-shaped building with a textured red roof. 𝘗𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘢 𝘏𝘶𝘵 was one of the few local Italian families in Ogdensburg; most of our families were imports from just across the St. Lawerence at some point (just look at all the French Canadian surnames of people you grew up with).

    What was it about “the Hut” that stuck with me all these years? Of course, the Pizza - that oily bread smell when you first walked in would practically pull you by your nostrils to your booth, the table of which was covered in a plastic red and white gingham tablecloth. The red cushions on the bench seats and backs were comfy, and the Tiffany-inspired lamp overhead rounded out what was supposed to be a little piece of an authentic Italian restaurant.

    Then there was the salad bar, an island all its own, with its beaches of crushed ice and bays of soupy dressings and vegetables. It wasn’t exactly extraordinary by today’s standards, but some things were unforgettable - the bleu cheese dressing is the first thing that comes to mind. As you grabbed the little ladle and scooped some of that delicious penicillin on your greens, it would slowly drip off, and you could see little pieces of it sliding down, a chunky flow of cheesy goodness that would give the otherwise tasteless iceberg lettuce great appeal. “Bacon” bits would go on next, and perhaps some of those crispy chow mein noodles would round it out nicely. The salad bar - I knew it was a sly psychological marketing ploy by the boys at Pizza Hut headquarters - why, you just didn’t 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 go out for Pizza, which is hardly a healthy meal - no, you had a 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘥 as well, so it was perfectly fine dinner - as if balancing a culinary scale to justify your visit to the Hut.

    You also had your choice at the pizza buffet and dessert buffet tables, of which I did not imbibe much, being more of a strident purist, not giving into the dazzling choices that would beguile my tongue.

    When we came back to our seats after having delightfully assembled our salads, our drinks had arrived. No Coke products here, no sir, Pepsi only. For me, it was always Mountain Dew; I had so much of it, I would say, “𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘔𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘐 𝘋𝘦𝘸!” Having gained “a few” pounds. That delicious lemon-lime sugar and caffeine bomb was served in those iconic tall red textured plastic tumblers (apparently the color red is very big in Italian culture).

    Then the pizza-de-resistance - the pan pizza! Oh, it had to be the pan pizza - not that boring flat-crust stuff. No, we wanted the thick crunchy crust (𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘺, 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘰𝘪𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘗𝘈 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘥), that was the deal. The only uncertainty - and often a point of distress when you went with other people - was, do you get your own 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 pan pizza or a big one to share? There was the bill to consider - one large pizza was cheaper by the slice than a personal, but you run the risk of someone wanting some foul topping on it you couldn’t stand. “𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧” they’d tell you. Ha, yeah, well how about just don’t put it on, buddy?! And be careful once you did bite in that it wasn’t too hot, as that red sauce would literally burn the roof of your mouth, causing it to peel off in little bits over the next day or so. It was the chance you took to experience that awesomeness.

    I always marveled a bit at the pans they were served in; charcoal black on the outside and inside, above the crust line. All old oil baked on over the decades, I reasoned, as they were slid in those ovens thousands of times, and impossible to clean, except by sandblasting, at this point. They were in and of out of heat more than a catholic jack rabbit.

    Then Pizza Hut waded into dangerous waters when they tried a crossover - or fusion product, we’d call it today - the 𝘛𝘢𝘤𝘰 𝘗𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘢! It was a risky move; purists might sneer at, or become openly hostile at the notion of this….dare they offend their most ardent patrons? Red cups and salad station ladles might end up missing, as a form of protest. However, it was pretty well received and kept on the menu for a while.

    Pizza Hut never tasted better, at least for me, than in winter. You’d walk in, and the humidity was always high, and the place very warm from the pizza ovens. It was just a little piece of the Italian coastline, Amalfi, in the dead cold of the winters in the ‘burg.

    I know the Pizza Hut is still up there in the same location, only a stone’s throw away from the old homestead on upper Hamilton St. Down here in the Rochester area, Pizza Huts are just mostly take-out places, or “Express” as they call them.

    It was my birthday recently, and guess where I went? A real sit-down Pizza Hut restaurant, and man, was it great.