Thursday, November 12th, 2020

I’ve passed this pizza place on the city square hundreds of times. Tonight, I want a calzone. I walk in and order one. The man behind the counter answers me in English. “Just pizza. I make you any kind, or you can get from the slices here.” The loudspeaker to my left is blasting aggressive rap. It isn’t too loud. I can understand him. I get prefab slices, one of tomato and onion and one of pineapple and cheese. “This will be few minutes.” He scoops each slice up on a large spatula, opens one of the four ovens, and puts it in. I step back. The next customer wants a pineapple slice with no added cheese. The worker picks the little blocks of cheese off of a slice with his gloved hands. He tosses it into the oven next to mine. A woman comes in with a small blonde girl in a pink tracksuit. The mother picks up a full pizza that she had ordered. She turns and sees the girl dancing to the music. She starts to say something to her, and then doesn’t. I stand and wait. The scents take me back to the best pizza I ever had. It was thirty four years ago. The pizza place had a large stone oven outdoors, near an old bus station. It was just a slice of cheese pizza with spices, but it was magnificent. I recall being told that the pizza place had been bombed some years later. The old bus station itself is gone now. After a few minutes, I hear the pizza oven clank open. The worker scoops out my slices and puts them in a box, with thin cardboard between them and a bag with packets of spices. I pay him and head home. The mother and girl walk several meters in front of me, hand in hand. The girl continues to dance as she walks, well after the music has faded away. They turn the corner at the hummus joint and disappear.