Pizza in New York City is such a cliché. An easily-available-greasy-cheap-rubbery-must-have cliche. I don’t know about the average New Yorker, but lord knows I have it far too often. Five times a week too often. And it’s bad, but so good. I can’t even begin to explain it: It’s a disgusting fast food Siren Song that just kind of exists. Any tourist’s romantic notions, frankly, are bullshit: It’s just pizza, albeit readily available and addicting.
It fulfills a need. An animal one.