New Yorkers simply don’t say no to pizza, whether it’s a dollar slice from 2 Bros Pizza or a classic coal-fired oven slice from John’s Pizzeria.
Being a New Yorker requires a strict adherence to the following rules:
#1: Never say no to pizza.
#2: New Yorkers rise above stupid rules.
For the record, all rules are stupid.
After 20 months of travel, I came home to the land of attitudes (correction: opportunities) on a nippy mid-April evening. Excited about spending time in New York again, I immediately took up Cameron’s offer to visit the Empire State Building.
Spring was late to arrive this year. People hurried around in their winter jackets on a Wednesday evening. Some were rushing home, others heading to their first dates. Cameron and I caught up over a post-workday cocktail at Bo Peep, a dark and stylish bar nestling beneath a midtown restaurant. The red-velvet banquettes and dim lighting seduced people away from the bustling, filthy streets. Men in their elaborate suits and women dressed to impress were lounging around to share two hours of intimacy. Did I dress well enough to fit in? Shit.
We then proceeded to our 7 pm dinner reservation upstairs at The Rag Trader, a hip restaurant in a former garment factory. Its overdone industrial interior, embellished with a blinding neon sign that read “blah” in my head, was another glamorous attempt at pleasing the fellow New Yorkers. The extravagance, though, was a necessary prelude to our trip up the Empire State Building. It was a subtle reminder that screamed: Welcome Back to New York.
Although unprepared, I rather enjoyed a glimpse of the glittery metropolitan lifestyle. After living out of a suitcase and rotating the same five outfits for a while, I missed having an elaborate closet. If a girl could hope, I also wished to own more than three pairs of shoes again. Overpriced dinner and cocktail could be desirable too, sometimes. And eventually, I shall be able to commit to owning a flatscreen TV without feeling tied down by its needy weight.
After enjoying our nice meal, we left the restaurant with a box of leftover gourmet pizza, ready for our grand tour to the Empire State Building. As soon as we hit the street corner, a homeless guy with his bicycle (an upper-class homeless man, I assumed) walked up to us and asked for money. He seemed warm enough in his beanie and down jacket, but he was hungry for food. After Cameron offered him a dollar or two, I wanted to give him the leftover pizza.
“Pizza?”
I nodded and raised the pizza box ever so slightly.
“God no, I don’t want no pizza! I want hot dogs – hot, hot dogs, man,” he demanded.
“…uh…I’m so sorry,” I lowered the pizza box in hope of easing his anger.
He was appalled, perhaps even furious that I had offered pizzas instead of hot dogs. As soon as I apologized for my grave mistake, I walked away bursting into laughter. My poor pizza, rejected, denied of its value.
“I cannot believe he said no to pizza!” Cameron exclaimed.
A slew of emotions rushed through my veins: I was shocked, amused, and thrilled at the bizarreness of it all. Remember rule #1? New Yorkers never say no to pizza. Yet a hungry New Yorker had just refused my pizza and insisted on having a hot dog – the best rejection one could ever ask for.
The media often spoke of New York-style pizza, fashion, manner, whatsoever. This man, a man of integrity, was a New York-style homeless. He knew what he wanted: a hot dog, not pizza nor bullshit. He was on the hunt for a perfectly hot hot dog. A thin-crust pizza simply couldn’t have fulfilled his desire even if it saved him from starvation. The triumph of rule #2: New Yorkers rise above all stupid rules… even hunger, in this case.
To this man, I say, keep your eye on the prize, and someday, may New York City bless you with the hottest hot dog you can ever dream of.
If you wish to know what happened to my lonely box of pizza afterward: it had gone up to the Empire State Building, and raised a middle finger at the hot dog stands while overlooking Manhattan in the biting wind.
Find me elsewhere: