The pizza at Michael’s Pizzeria is questionable. The crust is inconsistent—sometimes you get a Chicago style, other times it’s of the crunchy cracker variety. They have a dozen toppings to choose from, but really, plain cheese is the safe bet. After all, you wouldn’t want to pay more than $10.00 for cardboard. Oh and the calzones advertised with a bubbly decal at the window? They’re always out of it. But that’s because despite what two-thirds of its menu suggests, Michael’s Pizzeria is actually a Greek deli. It took an entire Boston winter for me to figure it out, but once I did, it was as if I’d unlocked a secret portal. One that led to traditional lamb gyros. Whether you’re walking in or ordering by phone, the question is always, “What kinda pie can I get started for ya?” To which the locals know to reply, “Got any fresh spanakopita left?”
I never expected to find myself in Belmont, Massachusetts but I was in the weeds with my undergraduate thesis and my Allston landlord had decided to flip the dodgy building I’d been living in. From his remote home in New Hampshire, he kicked all tenants to the curb in under a month. But it was just as well because the rats were getting to be the size of full-grown cats. With just a semester of school to go, I scoured the city for a last-minute place that would accommodate a short-term lease. And that’s how, mere days before the start of my final semester of college, I ended up in a sleepy suburban neighborhood made-up of empty nesters, retirees, and a whole lot of shifty behavior. I was easily the youngest person within a two-mile radius of this Middlesex County enclave and as a result, a watchful elder eye peered through the blinds of most windows as I walked to the bus stop each morning, and back each evening.
I was staying with Seymour*, Doris*, their unabashedly racist corgi, and a reclusive Harvard Law student studying for the Bar. Doris, an overworked nurse, wasn’t home much. But the mercurial Seymour, whose occupation remained a mystery for the duration of my stay, was always around. A needy man, that Seymour. He was one of those “where’d you go, who’d you see, what’d you do?” types. When I was feeling generous, I’d let him retell the story of the time he danced atop a stranger’s car with Iggy Pop. He’d see the tired, forced expression on my face, but rambled on with a renewed glee each time.
When Seymour would rope the widowed ex-actress across the street into coming over for a night cap, he’d make me stick around to confirm the story. As if I’d been there all along that night with Iggy. And on occasions when Seymour could manage to coerce more than four people into attending his frequent eleventh hour dinner parties, he’d get wasted and sing “Hava Nagila.” Seymour wasn’t Jewish, but you could always count on a guttural rendition of this traditional folk song. He’d make everyone hold hands and dance around the table, while he belted out the refrain. On nights when Seymour was especially belligerent, he’d drag me and the Law student out of our rooms to join in on the festivities.
Other times, Seymour was cagey and would mutter to himself as he paced across the kitchen. This made it almost impossible for me to prepare my meals. He’d open and shut cupboards, part his lips to speak, change his mind, face me to share something, change his mind—the tension was too much to bear. So I stopped cooking. Michael’s Pizzeria became the Italian mother who would greet me with a hot Greek meal every night, as I arrived from the bus stop across the street. The place only had two tables and a film of sticky, spilled apple juice always lined the floors, but they weren’t too chatty and they never closed.
Michael’s Pizzeria became the Italian mother who would greet me with a hot Greek meal every night, as I arrived from the bus stop across the street.
Sometimes I’d call in my order. Too embarrassed about going in so often, I’d try to muffle my voice. But they always got me. “Are you the no salad girl? It’ll be fifteen minutes.” I never learned their names and they never asked for mine, but the refuge of Michael’s Pizzeria—if only for the snowy walk there and back—was what kept me sane. On one frigid evening, I’d missed the bus and was forced to trek home from the Harvard Square subway stop in ten-degree weather. I was behind on my writing deadline, I knew Seymour and Doris would be throwing another raucous party that night, and I couldn’t feel my toes. I needed Michael’s.
I suppose everyone needed Michael’s that night because the place was alive with dripping patrons wearing scarves wrapped up to their eyes. I hadn’t called in my order, so I waited a solid hour for my gyro. I walked home, the steam from my hot dinner warming my fingertips. The lights were off and I sighed with relief—Seymour and Doris called it an early night, it seemed. I unlocked the door and entered the kitchen in total darkness. All at once, in a flurry, I was flat on my back and my gyro was in Missy’s mouth. She barked with growing intensity and pieces of pita pelted my face. Seymour woke up and groggily pulled her away, “pipe down you ol’ racist pooch.”
Dejected, I picked myself up and made the somber journey back to Michael’s.
*names have been changed to protect the innocent