Yes, Papi: there is good pizza in the Midwest…

There was a time, not very long ago, when there was a pizza spot with a glowing sign that called to new Fort Wayne residents like a siren song in the night. In my first weeks living in Indiana, I could hear its lullaby from the dinner hours until I drifted off to sleep. “Eat me, Plonk,” the pizza place would whisper in my subconscious. From the delivery apps on my phone, its ever-presence would taunt me–beckoning me, begging me to place an order–“Eat me, Plonk.” Until one night, when perhaps the whispering had escalated to insistent shrieks, or perhaps I was too weak from a pizza-deficiency, or maybe I had simply grown too curious–but, at last, I succumbed to the siren song of the cruel pizza mistress and placed my fateful order. It was a dark, stormy night when two tiny, pizza boxes appeared on my front porch. With great hesitation, I welcomed the pizza into my home. I opened the cardboard encasements and gazed upon the tepid, unholy monstrosities that lay before me. I took bite after bite in a dizzying, seemingly never-ending dance of sad sauce and unyielding cheese. I gave it my all–but it wasn’t enough. When the dance was done, my heart sank and grew cold and stony. I had not had the pizza; the pizza, as it called itself, had me. I locked myself away in my 1920’s bungalow like a ghost haunting my own home and I made the solemn vow never to bother with pizza in the midwest ever again. I said what I said. I don’t fuck with bad pizza. 

That chilling tale is the closest thing to a spooky Halloween story you’ll ever get on Plonk & Pleasure. The scariest part is that it’s true–down to every detail, including my extensive bout as a recluse. That was nearly two years ago; the memory is more like a bad dream now–something that happened to someone else. The pizza place in question is defunct and I haven’t shed a single tear. I’ve been putting myself back out there and meeting new pizzas. With every passing day, new better pizza places are opening in Fort Wayne. I have my favorites, just as I’m sure you have yours. But as the pizza game grows ever-stronger in Fort Wayne, we must always leave room to add to our list of favorites. So, cuties, this is your fair warning: make sure you’ve got a blank space for “Papi.”

I don’t know if this is an East Coast kid thing, or if y’all will be able to relate, but there’s this trope that every Atlantic Seaboard babe has got a pizza place near their high school that is “the spot.” If you can leave school for lunch, you’re going to that pizza place. If you’re not heading home after school, you’re going to that pizza place. My pizza place was a few blocks from my school–but if you hustled you could make it there and back for lunch. You’d be late, but not late enough to merit anything more than side-eye from a teacher. My ex-boyfriend had a pizza place directly across the street from his high school. His place gave out free slices to kids after school in an effort to keep teenagers out of trouble. I always found this hilarious, because my ex lived in an insanely affluent area. The only trouble I ever remember kids from his school getting into was when a group of idiots found a pile of asbestos in the wild and decided to jump in it. Stupidity doesn’t merit free pizza in my books. There are so many places where free pizza for the youths would be better served. But stupid is as privileged does, I suppose. I digress–because the point that I’m trying to make is that we East Coast kids all have this nostalgic idea of “our” pizza place. It’s the pizza we were eating when puberty hit. It’s the pizza we bought with our own money. It’s the pizza that we used to wipe our tears during our first big heartbreak. Maybe the place is better in memory than it ever was in reality–so nothing can touch the nostalgia. Enter Papi to bitchslap my fond memories. Wistfulness isn’t cute. Sentimentality doesn’t look good on me. But, damn, Papi wears its nods to my youth so well. 

If you were hoping that somebody would come along and put a decent slice shop on The Landing: wish granted, kiddo. With a little throw-back flare that those of us reluctantly trudging through our 30s might find comforting and evocative (while the youths might call it vintage–yikes!) Papi’s shows up as the chaotic-good pizza place of your dreams–or nightmares, depending on how boring of a personality you have. The marketing for Papi’s has been on point from day one–with most of us laughing until our guts hurt and tears unwittingly came out of our face-holes while clicking through their Instagram stories–leaving the losers to question what we thought was so funny. The cease and desist from Charles Entertainment Cheese’s lawyers only made Papi sexier to me–because I have questionable taste in men–and I don’t really see any difference between pizza and men. 

Papi’s isn’t open yet, but they invited some folks around for a little soft opening. If I was being vile, I would write, “Papi’s soft opening made me hard.” And I am being vile. So, I wrote it. Because, spoiler alert: Papi’s tastes good. But the thing about a soft opening is that it’s…well, soft. You’re not seeing every single inch; you’re just getting a little peek-a-boo. You have to use your imagination a little. You have to picture how things will grow and change. You have to see the potential in the “softness,” if you will–and I think you will. I could see it so clearly: Papi’s is going to rock your fucking world. So, get ready, cutie. There’s a new pizza rat in town, and the game is strong. 

I rolled up on Friday the 13th in the evening; brown paper still covering the windows, making me feel like I’m doing something sneaky and wrong by going inside. I love it–and so does the rebellious teenager that still resides in my brain. Papi’s Pizza is counter service (as a good slice shop should be) and they ran a limited menu for the soft opening, which is smart and fully respectable. Get it, Papi. There were choices to be had and decisions to be made: a classic cheese slice, Sicilian style pepperoni, a slice of Chiki’s Bacon Ranch (which is exactly what you think it is,) a slice with bruschetta and a drizzle of pesto, or the Garlic-Chili Crunch Meatball slice. I chose not to make a choice. I just got one of everything to split with my bestie. This is the only way we know how to live–like reckless pizza heathens. As much chaotic energy that Papi’s has put out into the universe through their online persona: the evening was well organized, clean, and gorgeously executed. They set up a little bar of appetizers that guests of the soft-opening could sample at no cost–kindness abounding! There was Caesar Salad, Bruschetta, Clam Dip, and a really noteworthy Cheesy Garlic Bread. It’s noteworthy because it’s basic AF and doesn’t look like it will be anything particularly special. Then it kicks you in the teeth with awesome garlicky flavor and suddenly you’re writing wedding vows about some cheese bread you just met. Adult tested, crotch-goblin approved.

Perhaps most importantly, three flavors of wings were on offer. Did we try all three flavors? Come on, you’re not brand new–we both know it wasn’t a real question. These are really quintessential pizza place wings; they will pair beautifully with whatever za you munch them alongside. The three flavors we got to try were Teriyaki, Buffalo, and Lemon Pepper. The Teriyaki had a nice flavor. The Buffalo made me genuinely happy. You see, sometimes I order Buffalo wings and then get legitimately sad because I feel like somebody secretly signed me up for a Hot Ones challenge that I did not consent to. Not all Buffalo sauce is created equally–and some people take it too fucking far. Not Papi’s. Papi’s understands the importance of consent and my wanting to eat a buffalo wing doesn’t automatically mean I’ve consented to having my tastebuds scorched to utter nothingness. The Buffalo wings have a kick but it’s entirely palatable and provides dope flavor. However, if you’re in it entirely for taste, the Lemon Pepper is where it’s at. Bestie says he’d order the Lemon Pepper for lunch and then go back and get them again for dinner and never get tired of them. So, if you’re somebody who likes your pizza with a side of chicken flats and drums, rest assured that Papi has you covered on that front.

As for the pizza, there’s a lot to be excited about. My first bite was the plain cheese because that’s how you’ve got to do it if you’re truly trying to assess somebody’s quality of pizza. Sorry, I don’t make the rules: some old guy in Queen’s named Joe probably does, so take it up with him, I guess. (Fucking patriarchy.) If you watched Ninja Turtle cartoons as a kid and got jealous about the pizza they were slamming, this is the pizza for you. Papi’s got big slices, with sweet-zesty sauce, and cheese that’s practically built for epic cheese-pulls. My first slice of the evening was just cheese, but it had me all starry-eyed and swoony like, “Yes, Papi.” The second slice on my bucket list? I’m a lover of cured meats and a square slice, so you know I got excited and couldn’t wait too long to try their Sicilian pepperoni. They’re using the little pepperoni that curl up and hold the oil like perfect little zingy-meat-bowls. Cupping pepperoni, for those in the know. I’m a fan. By the second slice, I was like, “I’m Papi now.” Third slice, I went for the Garlic-Chili Crunch Meatball: the most epic-flavored slice of the evening. It was a mistake to put this one third, because damn–she spicy. The Garlic-Chili Crunch Oil does not fuck around–and I shouldn’t have been surprised by this at all, but I kinda was. If you’re one of those idiots who blots their pizza–first of all, delete me. Second of all, do not order this pizza and ruin it with the worst habit you learned from your grandma. The oil is the point. Learn to stop worrying and love the oil. The texture of the meatballs was dope and there really isn’t another slice with this precise flavor profile in Fort Wayne, so if you can handle the heat, do it up. As for me, I’m a little bit of a baby when it comes to the spicy side of life. Last slice, I felt like Papi. This slice reprimanded, “You’re not Papi, silly girl. I am Papi–so, shut your pretty mouth and look me in the eyes when I’m speaking to you.” I moved on to Tomato Tony: we’ll call this slice Margherita adjacent. This is the Golden Retriever boyfriend of pizza slices. With its bruschetta and basil drizzle, I could get used to this slice being around and treating me so nicely. It’s cute. It’s yummy. It sends ‘good morning’ texts. It’s not the kind of slice that I normally go for–if I’m being honest, catch me in the right mood and I’m actually more of a Garlic-Chili Crunch Meatball girl–but I could sort of see things working out between Tomato Tony and me. Really nice slice; you should absolutely take it for a test drive. Finally, I made my way to Chiki’s Bacon Ranch. I don’t gatekeep pizza toppings. I’m the kind of girl who thinks pineapple belongs on pizza. (But, maybe balance it with salty meat like bacon crumbles, and throw on some red onion to round it out.) No sane person can throw me off by telling me what pizza toppings they enjoy: olives, anchovies, green peppers–they all have their time and place on pizza. I have been known to have a slice of chicken, bacon, ranch pizza here or there. But it’s not something I order when I’m in the mood for pizza. It doesn’t taste like pizza. A CBR slice is its own thing, and the one Papi is serving up deserves its moment. As I understand it, the ranch is made in house and she thiccccc. I heard the fellow foodie sitting near me gushing with her friend about how much they liked the ranch. You Midwesterners with your pizza and ranch…I don’t get it but go off, sis. We’re all still entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness–especially where pizza is concerned. Now, if you’ve read my writing before, you may have seen the common thread that I have a thing for scallions. When I cook for myself, I will use objectively too many scallions because I just can’t ever really get enough scallion flavor or crunch. Papi’s CBR slice has scallions on it and, dude, THEY’RE THE ONLY PEOPLE USING ENOUGH SCALLION. Thank you, Papi–from the bottom of my cold, dead heart–for serving me a slice with an appropriate amount of scallion. That crisp, green, oniony goodness balances the thick richness of the ranch and the salty fattiness of the bacon crumbles. You need a big-ass burst of scallion to bring light to the otherwise insanely heavy CBR slice. Papi’s slayed this one. It’s choice. I’m emphatically for it. 

Do you like sweet, unexpected surprises? Me too. So, imagine my joy when they started giving out free samples of their house made ice cream. That’s right; Papi’s is basically a one stop shop for a good time. I sampled their house vanilla, chocolate, and espresso. The vanilla is exceptional: creamy, clean vanilla flavor. There are present, black specks of vanilla bean throughout–so, if your kid is particularly picky, they might be pissed about the speckles. But, any foodie will tell you, that’s exactly what you want to see in a decent vanilla ice cream. As for the chocolate; I am a girl who loves chocolate but often passes over chocolate ice cream because most simply aren’t that impressive. Papi’s comes in clutch with a curveball in the chocolate ice cream game–theirs is fire. Surprisingly elegant for a pizza place chocolate ice cream: this darker, well-rounded chocolate flavor balances sweet and bitter in exemplary fashion. I will crave Papi’s chocolate ice cream. But, in truth, the espresso ice cream takes the cake for me. I mean, if you’re doing two scoops, get one chocolate and one espresso and you’ll never be sad again a single day in your life. If you’re only doing one scoop: stop being stupid and do two.

So, to answer the question that you never asked me but you should have asked so I’m going to answer it anyways–yes, Papi: there is good pizza in the Midwest. It exists as indisputably as death, taxes, and rats. There is also bad pizza in the Midwest, so you have to seek out the good stuff. But with Papi’s Pizza making a home on The Landing, you won’t have to look too far for a decent slice. In amongst the muraled drywall, the hand-painted decks on display, the innumerable stickers, a hot pink neon sign, and a wall with the infamous 90s paper cup “Jazz” design–good pizza exists. And in this sacred, nostalgic, pizza-filled dreamscape there is housemade ice cream, saucy wings, and a staff of some of the most kick-ass, brilliant, talented humans that you’ll find on planet earth. If you value kindness, deliciousness, and cheese-pulls of epic proportion: welcome home. Pull up a chair. Have a slice. You’re Papi now.