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When it comes to some other things, too.
I follow Mary to the table near the window, set down my paper plate, and then hold out her chair for her.
She murmurs, “Thank you,” and sits.
I sit across from her. “This pizza must be something pretty special.”
She nods. “It is. But sometimes it takes some getting used to for people who don’t live here.”
“I grew up in the States. I told you.”
“But did you grow up here? In the city that never sleeps? Because things are different here.”
“No,” I tell her. “In New Orleans. My mother was a Southern gal.”
Mary picks up her slice and glances at the napkin holder on the table. “Greg,” she says, raising her voice and waving her hand a little to get his attention, “we’re going to need more napkins.”
Greg walks out from behind the counter and grabs the chrome napkin holder. “Yeah, right away. You’ll definitely need them.”
“Are you going to make me wait for napkins?” I ask. “Or can I dig in? I wasn’t hungry before, but now that I’m smelling this, I’m starving.”
“Oh, we can dig in,” she says, “but you’ll have grease dribbling down your chin.”
“Normally I wouldn’t mind that, but my kilt is dry clean only.”
She smiles. “Then we’ll wait for the napkins.”
With luck, we don’t have to wait long. Greg comes back with the now-filled napkin holder. Mary grabs at least ten of them and then looks at me.
I take a fistful of napkins, as well, placing several in my lap and the rest next to my plate.
She taps her fingers lightly on her pizza. “I think it’s cool enough that we can eat it now. Here’s what you do.” She picks up her slice. “Obviously, it’s too big to eat like this without making a mess of everything, so you fold it over.” She literally folds the pizza slice in two so that only the crust is visible, and then she takes a bite from the tip of it. “See?” she says, her mouth full. She chews and swallows. “Delicious.”
I mimic her movements, folding my pizza over into a smaller and narrower triangle. It’s still huge, though, and a drop of grease dribbles onto my plate.
I take a bite off the tip, like Mary did. It’s still hot, but not hot enough to scorch the roof of my mouth. I let the flavors scatter over my tongue—the yeasty zest of the dough, the robust acidic tartness of the tomato sauce, and the creamy umami of the mozzarella cheese.
Damn. This might just change my mind about pizza.
Mary raises her eyebrows after I swallow. “Well?”
“You were right, it’s delicious. I’m not sure I’ve tasted anything quite like it, and I’ve had my share of pizza.”
“But this is New York pizza,” she says. “A lot of places try to copy it, but they’re never successful. Even a lot of places here in the city say they have traditional New York pizza, but it’s not like this. Here, at Gianni’s, it’s always warm, and it’s always perfect.”
I take another bite, and true to Mary’s word, this time a drop of grease slides down my chin. I grab one of the napkins and wipe it up.
“Told you.” She grins, wiping her napkin across her chin. “So…I’ve never been to New Orleans. What’s it like?”
“In a word, amazing. You may love the Big Apple, but you haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the Big Easy. Talk about a city that never sleeps.”
She widens her eyes. “Oh?”
“Yeah. New Orleans is something that’s indescribable. You can read about it, watch movies set there. But you don’t really know it until you go there. Live it.”
“Do you still have family there?”
I nod. “My grandmother. She runs a Creole restaurant.”
