You check the time as the subway car grinds to a halt. It’s just after midnight on a Tuesday evening. As you emerge from the mostly empty station, a bit dizzy, you quickly tally the number of drinks you consumed at the after-work holiday event. There was food there, but you probably didn’t eat enough.
As you begin your trek home, you do a quick calculus in your head: there is enough time to grab a quick greasy snack, something that will soak up some of the alcohol in your system, and still be home in time to get six hours of sleep before work tomorrow.
Most spots around here are closed, but a few options remain. The warm glow of the Jerk King beckons, but that seems too heavy for this hour. There’s a 24 hour A&W nearby, but, alas, there were sliders at the work function.
Before you know it, you find yourself involuntarily drawn in the direction of the Pizza Pizza on the corner, as if the restaurant’s lurid orange sign contains some dark magnetic quality. You glance around quickly before entering, though any attempt at anonymity is quickly undone by the digital door chime that blares as you enter.
Briefly stupefied by the absurdly bright lighting, you make your way to the counter and survey your options: a couple slices of pepperoni that look like they’ve been left in the sun for days, a “Hawaiian” slice topped with bleached and shrivelled chunks of pineapple, a petrified calzone that looks like something that might be excavated from an ancient catacomb.
“Which of these are freshest?” you ask, your voice a bit more slurred than you anticipated.
“They’re all fresh,” the employee — clearly a pro — deadpans.
A few minutes later, your slice is pulled from the oven, and it’s looking a lot better. The slightly browned crust glistens, the cheese and pepperoni have started to sweat. You fish for some change ($3.95 to be exact), hand it to the employee and proceed to the accoutrement station, where you load your bounty with chili flakes and “Italian seasoning.”
At last, you take a seat, and use a handful of flimsy brown napkins to gently clear the crumbs from the table’s surface.
A Chris Brown song that you secretly like comes on the sound system as you take that first bite, slightly burning the top of your mouth.
It’s not great, and it’s certainly not “fresh,” but it hits the spot. It’s what you needed. And despite the fluorescent lighting and detritus scattered across the room, you feel at peace. With sticky fingers, you grab your phone, texting your friends about the evening’s gossip and making sure that they got home ok.
You check the time once more and steel yourself for the walk home. The dizziness has disappeared, and you step out into the fresh air feeling sturdy and satiated, ready to float towards the warm safety of your bed.
Pizza Pizza is not good. This is not a controversial thing to say. Sure, the prices are slightly cheaper than most other chains (though not significantly), but the product is undeniably inferior. Often compared to the flavour of cardboard, Pizza Pizza is better known for its garlic sauce — a creamy, salty, slightly sweet concoction — than its actual slices. Many customers will buy packets of this sauce, slathering it on top of their pizza or dunking their slice directly in it, not unlike a beef dip.
And yet the Toronto-based chain, which has over 750 locations, mostly in Ontario, is confoundingly ubiquitous. It occupies prime real estate on many major intersections, and is also crammed into tiny unexpected outposts near the beach, on campus, at the stadium, at Wonderland.
“I don’t know a single Canadian who likes Pizza Pizza or who finds the success of Pizza Pizza to be anything other than deeply puzzling,” an X user pointed out earlier this week.
The post went viral, sparking a heated debate among impassioned pizza-eaters.
“Pizza Pizza is essentially Canada’s depression meal,” wrote one user.
“literally just the garlic sauce, that sh — could make cardboard taste good,” wrote another.
Of course, Pizza Pizza also had its defenders. “It’s not especially good, but it’s not terrible,” read one post. “It’s fast food pizza.”
Others were quick to point out that Pizza Pizza is not alone in being the only subpar Canadian chain that nonetheless seems to have an endless marketing budget and enough locations to single-handedly solve the housing crisis: Tim Hortons comes to mind most readily.
But these debates don’t really interest me. Because I believe in the Pizza Pizza mission: the dependable, affordable, good enough spot that remains open, braving the late-night rabble when all the other chains offering slightly elevated slices — your Pizza Nova’s and your Pizzaiolis — have long shuttered.
It’s not your first choice, or even your fifth choice, but what is the purpose of choice if there is not some inferior with which to compare things? There is no ideal without the existence of imperfection.
Top five pizza slice chains in Toronto
1. 241 Pizza
I’ve got a soft spot for 241, especially the one on Bloor and Havelock, which prior to the pandemic use to offer a massive slice and a pop for $2.50 on Tuesdays. Still, solid if your favourite local spot is closed.
2. Pizzaiolo
This is like the Ferrari of Ontario pizza chains, offering slightly pricier, but more gourmet slices. A lot of variety and very filling.
3. Pizzaville
Another spot I have a soft spot for, likely based on my proximity to a solid location when I was a student on College Street. Dependable, with a unique flavour. I often get the Hawaiian with bacon.
4. Pizza Nova
I honestly don’t know what to say about Pizza Nova other than that there are many of them across Toronto, and they are just fine. Completely unremarkable otherwise.
5. Pizza Pizza
Your escape hatch, your last resort. You don’t have to tell anyone you went.
