Slice Harvester

by Colin Atrophy Hagendorf

  It was perfect. Warm, but not so hot that it burned my mouth. The crust was crisp on the bottom, the sauce spiced just so, the cheese supple and delicious. And the smell! From that pizzeria emanated a delectable odor that was once far more common in New York. Today it reminds me of simpler times, because I was a teenager then, and everything was simpler when I was a teenager.

  Despite eating pizza at least once a week growing up, the slice I had at St. Marks Pizza that day with my father stands out in my memory as the first perfect slice I ever had. The second came in my early twenties, on Broadway in Brooklyn, when I was on my way to the first show I ever saw at the Bent Haus, a ramshackle building on Bartlett Street that hosted raucous punk shows for many years. Local party punks Bent Outta Shape lived there, and my new friend Kevers had invited me to the show. I was excited to see the bands and nervous at the prospect of having to make new friends. I had just moved into an apartment on Lorimer Street, so it must’ve been almost 2004 or 2005. Walking down the hill toward Broadway, slurping a Ballantine tallboy out of a paper bag, I was brimming with both unfettered excitement and crippling social anxiety, mitigated only slightly by my malt liquor buzz.

  It’s fitting that I can vividly remember the slice of pizza I ate before the show, but the bands I was so excited to see are now a mystery to me. (Was it JRR Tallcan? Could it have been MTAnus?) I do know that it was around Halloween and I was dressed in a child-sized, polyester Hulk Hogan costume that I had cut into two pieces and was wearing as a midriff shirt–capri pants combo over a set of dollar-store long johns. I had a fake mustache I’d spray-painted yellow and glued to my face while it was still wet, so I was more or less constantly huffing glue and paint the whole night.

  I was a little drunk, but the autumn air chilled my body through my scanty attire. I turned the corner onto Broadway, a street I had spent little time on but whose elevated train tracks and bustling sidewalk culture reminded me of Jamaica Avenue in Queens, near my grandmother’s house. I shivered as I stepped into the shade of the tracks, and hoped the house wasn’t too far away. Consulting the directions scribbled on the back of my hand proved unhelpful. As I walked down Broadway, I caught that smell again, the one that has followed me my whole life—a smell that lingered on that block so strongly that it overcame the paint fumes from the mustache right under my nose. Sure enough, a few storefronts past the Crown Fried Chicken was a pizza shop with its window open to the street.

  I bought a slice and ate it as I walked the remaining blocks, which suddenly seemed shorter. It was delicious, that piece of pizza. It was on the wet side of the perfect ratio, but it had that special, intangible something that makes a slice terrific. I was a little bit tipsy and a big bit nervous about going to the show; my insides flickered like TV static, and I felt lighter than air, as if a gust of wind might send me tumbling down the street. But that slice of pizza solidified me. Its warmth spread from my belly all the way out to my limbs, and suddenly I was back in my body, ready for action.

  I’ve been back to that place dozens of times in the decade since that day, and it’s always a decent slice, but it’s never been that good again. That particular evening I wasn’t just eating a slice of pizza, I was eating all of the endless possibilities of youth. I was eating all of my hopes and dreams, and the thrilling sense of excitement that accompanied my fears. And let me tell you, a slice of pizza flavored with boundless innocence tastes great.

  Looking back, I can see that both of my favorite slices symbolize benchmark moments in my development. That slice on St. Marks Place with my father when I was thirteen was the end of my childhood. That day was probably the last time we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company for many years. Shortly thereafter I hit my sullen teenagehood and disavowed my awesome and loving family in an effort to establish my independence in the world. I cast myself off from the shores of familial love and was adrift at sea for quite some time, trying on different identities. And that slice on Broadway marks the end of those wanderings. I had found the Punx. I had found my way home.

  There’s this street character we used to always see in Tompkins Square Park back then who we called Screamin’ Jesus. He was Frankenstein tall and had a big beard. He seemed to always be barefoot, sometimes draped in an American flag. He’d circle the perimeter of the park all day long, screaming, “BRITNEY SPEARS IS TURNING OUR DAUGHTERS INTO WHORES!” or “THE ROLLING STONES MADE MOMMIES AND DADDIES INTO SEX OBJECTS! MOMMIES AND DADDIES WEREN’T MEANT TO BE SEX OBJECTS!” All the young punks, in our merciless exuberance, would make fun of him. Not to his face, of course, because no one ever actually spoke to him. But on any given day one of us might take our boots off and stamp around in circles shouting nonsense in our best Screamin’ Jesus impersonation.

  I’m not sure when I first had a real conversation with him, but for a few years, whenever I saw him while I was working my delivery job, I’d stop frantically biking and he’d stop maniacally shouting and we’d talk briefly before both continuing on our respective, crazed ways. One afternoon I was talking with a friend when Screamin’ Jesus walked by. I waved hello, and he jogged up to me, incredibly excited. “Hey, Colin!” he breathlessly began. “I don’t know if you realize this, but every moment we have is a moment that’s already passed us by. They’re so quick and fleeting that we can’t even hold them, and that might make you feel lost, but it’s actually beautiful. You and I just had millions of moments together, Colin. Millions of moments in a span of seconds.” And then he was off, berating a portly, sunbathing yuppie, “LOOK AT YOU, WITH YOUR EXPOSED NIPPLES AND YOUR FAT BELLY BESIDE . . .”

  I think Screamin’ Jesus summarized all the joy and pain of my young adulthood in that brief encounter. Since then that community has changed; I’ve changed. People have left town, dropped out of punk, passed away. Of the dozens of friends at that Halloween show, there’s only a handful I still speak to on a regular basis, and only one I actually see more than a few times a year. None of those bands are still around, that’s certain. We didn’t expect any of them to endure for long. We were living in the end times. We didn’t have to build things to last.

  I guess it makes sense that what would prove to be the defining creative endeavor of my adult life would focus on the plain slice. On Day One of Slice Harvesting, I continued south from Grandpa’s along Broadway. Sweet Tooth hadn’t shown up, so I had some time alone to perfect my routine: Photograph the front of the pizzeria. “Lemmegetta regular slice.” Photograph the slice. Eat. Furiously take notes. On to the next.

  By this point I’d known Tooth for a few years. Sometime in the early 2000s some friends of mine were passing through New Orleans and met him on the street. They invited him to stay on their couch for a bit if he ever made it to Brooklyn, and he took them up on the offer about six months later, eventually living in that house for two years. He’s been in and out of the city ever since. Sometimes it seems like he knows every punk in America. He may or may not have a nose ring (I can’t remember), but he would definitely look good with one. His hair is always wildly unkempt and often dyed some odd color. He has homemade tattoos all over his arms and hands—most notably a crudely drawn rectangle on his left forearm, in which is written, “THE FUTURE IS A MACHINE AND YOU ARE SHIT.”

  Sweet Tooth’s real name is Daniel, and he’s a nice Jewish boy from Little Rock, Arkansas, though he set off across the roads and highways of America when he was fairly young. He ran an underground cinema in Oakland and a speakeasy rock club in Minneapolis. He recorded some of the weirdest and most beautiful music I have ever heard. He and I played together in a band called Nasty Intentions, once upon a time. It was probably the most fun band I’ve ever been in, but we kind of fizzled out, as punk bands often do, when half the group (Tooth included) moved away.

  I liked Sweet Tooth immediately upon knowing him. We were kindred spirits. Anytime I got a weird new record, he was down to listen. Anytime he made ether from starter fluid, I was down to huff. We both felt an absolute and unwavering connection to Bein
g Punk and the punk community at large, but we also had an interest in avant-garde art and music rooted in our teenage years and the influence of our strange fathers. How many other punks could I talk for hours about Sun Ra with while passing a bottle of poppers back and forth? Probably quite a few, actually, though for the purposes of this story, Sweet Tooth is the only one in the world.

  I can say with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t have been Slice Harvesting that day if it weren’t for Sweet Tooth’s half-assed encouragement, and I can speculate, as one is apt to do, that if I hadn’t started Slice Harvesting that day, I may never have started at all; the Slice Harvester project may have remained for an idyllic eternity in the land of Drinking and Talking. So, in a sense, it is because of Sweet Tooth that you’re reading this book. In short: this is all his fault. Curse him if you wish, but more important, if you are a pizzeria owner feeling maligned and litigious—Tooth is the guy to sue, not me.

  That first day I wanted to sue Sweet Tooth for negligence myself. He had abandoned me. At first the solitude was pleasant, helping me hone my technique in peace, but five crummy slices in I needed some moral support. I lingered outside the sixth pizza place, Tony’s, a little longer than usual, hoping I’d spot my buddy loping down the street.

  Aesthetically the place was great, a picturesque hole-in-the-wall where a perfectly disheveled old man in a promotional Guitar Hero baseball cap served me a mediocre slice. I liked the man behind the counter. I wanted to like this place, too, but the slice was disappointing, and somehow that made my whole life seem disappointing, as a bad slice often can. Maybe it was just my lingering hangover, but I ate my terrible slice of pizza masochistically, as if each bite was penance for being such a worthless piece of shit. But suddenly Sweet Tooth came bursting through the door, dripping water everywhere, despite the fact that it didn’t seem to be raining out. His eyes were darting back and forth and he was blinking like a mole man.

  “I’m sorry I’m so late, Colin.”

  “Don’t worry, Tooth. Why are you so . . . never mind. Are you okay?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what’s been happening today. I woke up and went out to Rockaway Beach and lost my glasses in the ocean. I spent hours looking for them but couldn’t see anything, and no one helped me. I finally stumbled my way to the train and got on and was on the way, and then all of a sudden the train ground to a halt and the car started to fill with smoke because of a fire in the tunnel. They said it was caused by garbage on the tracks, but everyone thought it was a terrorist attack or something and started freaking out. Eventually we were all evacuated and I got onto a new train and made it up here, but you weren’t on the corner because it was so late, so I started going into every pizzeria I could find, but I still couldn’t see anything, so I’d go up really close to people to see if they were you, and then they weren’t you and then I’d ask the people working if they’d seen you and none of them remembered, and now I finally found you and I’m sorry I’m late.” He leaned in and hugged me tight and soggy, out of breath from talking so fast.

  “It’s okay, buddy. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay now.” I wasn’t only reassuring Tooth. “Let’s go to the next place.”

  As we walked and talked, guided by a map I had drawn, Pizza Palace, our final destination, loomed ahead. I started to have my first doubts about the worthiness of this endeavor. Six pizzerias in, and not only had I not had a single great slice yet, I’d had five terrible slices. I wasn’t feeling hopeful as Tooth and I looked across Dyckman Street at an awning that read “PIZZA * HEROES,” presumably advertising slices and sandwiches, although the proper pluralization of “hero” (the sandwich) would be “heros.” Tooth noticed the typo, turned to me, and muttered, “You’re my pizza hero.”

  From across the darkening street, I could see figures in the pizza parlor window—swarthy white men wearing red striped shirts, aprons, and paper hats giving daps to two Dominican teenagers wearing baggy tall tees and Bone Thugs braids. I could hear the strains of a Katy Perry song echoing from a tinny boom box. And I could imagine the exact scene playing out year after year, with different music coming from the boom box and different clothes and hairstyles on the teenagers. In my daydreams, Pizza Palace and its employees remain constant. I want to say that when we stepped into Pizza Palace it felt like we had stepped into a time machine, but it would be more apt to say that we had stepped outside of time. Pizza Palace is a magical space. It seems as if it has existed in one form or another since the Old Gods roamed the earth.

  When we got inside, we noticed that there were three dudes behind the counter, all seemingly related and ranging in age from Probably, Like, Seventeen to John Turturro to Hella Old. We ordered our slice from Turturro, paid our money to Seventeen, and were eyed suspiciously by Hella Old. The slice itself was a mess—totally asymmetric, thicker than I usually like, a crust that looked like it had barely been in the oven, and cheese bubbling off the sides like hot lava. We got to the table, and before I even took a bite I said to my companion, “I’m afraid of this slice, Tooth.”

  He gave me the High Brow, a questioning glance.

  “It’s just . . . this place is so cool, and I really want the slice to be good. Plus, I’m honestly scared that if I say anything bad about it and one of the other customers or, god forbid, those guys behind the counter overhear me, they’ll kick my ass! These people all seem like they take this pizza very seriously. It’s a lot of pressure.”

  Tooth looked me dead in my eyes and said, “Colin, sometimes fear is a key ingredient to a perfect slice.” Truer words.

  Luckily, we didn’t have to find out what would have happened if we talked shit about the pizza, because it was really good. It was different than I usually like, and was definitely not my ideal slice, but damn, son. It was so big I could barely fit the thing in my mouth. And it was wet, but not so wet that it was slipping and sliding all over the place—just wet enough. And just warm enough. This slice was big, wet, and warm. I wanted it in my mouth forever.

  Things were looking up.

  * * *

  1. Maximum Rocknroll, or MRR, is the longest-running monthly punk fanzine in America, published since 1982. It got kind of dumb for a few years, but lately, via a series of Rad Women coming on as coordinators, it has become So Fucking Cool again.

  John Kambouris at his mixer

  CHAPTER 2

  Pizza Palace

  They’re obviously confident their pizza is good, because it looks sloppy as fuck, and they didn’t even reheat it. This slice had thicker dough and more cheese than I generally prefer, but they were perfectly balanced so that every bite was a delight. And the dough was airy and fluffy, not dense and horrid. This really comes through in the crust, which, though it was thick and pale—two signs that it might be undercooked and crappy—had a nice crispness to it, and the inside was fluffy enough that it never felt overwhelming or heavy.

  —Slice Harvester Quarterly, Issue 1, “Uptown,” visited on August 12, 2009

  In order to fully understand the magic of Pizza Palace, we need to get to know John Kambouris, the man who has run the place for the past thirty years. Kambouris, who owns Pizza Palace with his brother, George, moved to New York City’s Inwood neighborhood from Greece in the 1960s. He got a job as a dishwasher at a little restaurant on Broadway, then became a cook at a small diner in the Bronx, slowly crawling up the food-service food chain until 1971, when he opened his own coffee shop on Sherman Avenue. He ran that until 1986, when he bought Pizza Palace, which had originally been opened in 1945 by three brothers.

  “They were guys from my home island,” John told me in his slight Greek accent one afternoon when I stopped at Pizza Palace for a slice. “The three brothers, one of them wanted to leave. He said to me, ‘John, what are you doing in this coffee shop? Buy my share of the pizza parlor. Pizza—this is where you will make your money.’

  “ ‘But what do I know of pizza?’ I asked him. ‘Pizza is easy,’ he told me. ‘I will teach you.’ And so I tho
ught this offer over, and I have been here ever since.”

  He punctuated this statement with a small stamp of his foot and a grand sweep of his arms around his pleasantly run-down pizza shop, smiling proudly.

  Like any part of New York, Inwood is a neighborhood with a long and complex history. Inwood Hill Park is where Peter Minuit “purchased” Manhattan from the island’s indigenous people. The Dutch began settling there in the seventeenth century, but the only traces of their former presence are the name of Dyckman Avenue and a Dutch Colonial farmhouse built in 1784 that’s now a museum called the Dyckman House. And the projects in Inwood are known as the Dyckman Houses. A museum and a housing project are nearly polar opposites in terms of usage and public perception of value, so there is a certain unpleasant irony in the fact that these two spaces share a name.

  The neighborhood remained relatively rural until the early twentieth century, when subways were built to connect it to the rest of the city and new construction began to flourish. Irish laborers were brought in to build apartment houses, which they subsequently moved into. The Irish were soon followed by a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing the dreary claustrophobia of the Lower East Side, and a small enclave of Greeks (including John Kambouris) came over from Kos, a tiny island one-twentieth the size of Delaware, with a smaller population than that of Minot, North Dakota.

  Inwood was pretty suburban until the late 1940s, when Robert Moses built the Dyckman Houses, a seven-building project on Tenth Avenue. This was also when two of the neighborhood’s most famous residents were born: Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who was born and raised in the Dyckman Houses and grew up to be really tall and also the highest-scoring basketball player ever, and writer/famous junkie Jim Carroll, although he didn’t move to Inwood until he was fifteen. His most famous book, The Basketball Diaries, is about being a dirtbag teen here, though pretty much any New York neighborhood worth its salt has inspired some kind of art about being a dirtbag teen: Upper East Side: The Catcher In the Rye; Queensbridge: The Infamous Mobb Deep; Lower East Side: Low Life by Luc Sante; etc.