A pie is on the way, I’m told, from Ohio State Pizza, which has emerged after all these months as my and Alan’s clear cut favorite. Damon doesn’t much care, because nine times out of ten he’s only interested in the crust. We consider him crazy, but many a night Alan and I will come home, or awaken, to find an entire pizza crammed into our fridge, with the exception that its entire outlying crust is gone. Damon always instructs us to eat the rest if confronted with this, that he never will. And so by process of elimination, and discarding my lone Gumby’s experience, which, aside from an easily recalled phone number (29GUMBY) and their virtual around the clock delivery policy, has little to recommend itself, Ohio State Pizza receives this couch cushion change jangling so loudly in our pockets.
At the northeastern cusp of campus housing, the corner of Hudson and Indianola, Ohio State Pizza functions in an unassuming bandbox about as big as a can of tomato paste. Family owned, family managed, enabling the modest perks and quirks that set it apart. The driver always shows up wearing no shirt, no shoes, jeans slung low enough around the waist to broadcast a good three inches of his tighty whitey underwear. So out of step, our first few times ordering from these cats we assume it’s the same dude showing up, but then we notice that all the drivers have adopted this curious dress code, leading us to rename the establishment Redneck Pizza in their honor. On exactly one occasion we swing through for pick up, but after watching the admittedly mind boggling swift crew dance around one another on autopilot as they throw every food safety precaution aside without a thought, it occurs to us that the inner workings of some machines are best left to the imagination. And anyway, though these wheels are certainly mighty tasty, the main thrust of our infatuation had been from day one that they deliver beer and cigarettes, too, and that no matter how many young girls cavort around inside your apartment as you call, in the background as you accept and pay they never, under any circumstances, ask for ID.
Always, the delivery man’s interruption. The contemporary shirtless low-riding jeans specimen from Ohio State Pizza slams on the brakes curbside and hurdles across the lawn, appeasing our laziness with another extra large oven offering. Sliced in the old fashioned spoke style few companies fool with anymore, another bonus. Having already narrowed down our preferred establishments to two, some insider Gumby’s information Jeremy passed along the other night, gleaned from a mutual friend of ours named Steve who works there, officially knocks them from contention as well. Roaches the size of pepperoni, he says.
We did make the mistake once of drifting inside Ohio State Pizza for a pickup order. This is an experience I wouldn’t necessarily recommend. As you might gather from the photo above, confines are cramped in there, leaving little breathing room as you stand around and wait. Plus something about seeing these pie crafting wizards in action ruined the magic a little bit. Well, it’s either that, or maybe that which is hilarious when brought to your house isn’t quite so if viewed at the source. I’m sure it’s perfectly sanitary and all – and this place remains in operation, to this day, which bespeaks quality – but let’s just say the low-riding jeans, shirtless delivery aesthetic remains in place at home base. Some things are meant to be inferred but not seen.
