Item #18 - Eat at Pizzeria Regina and Santarpio's

I've now spent the majority of my live in either the Detroit area or the Boston area (I also spent 2 years living in West Lafayette in middle-of-freaking-nowhere Indiana, but we're just going to try and forget about those two years because, well, as i said, it was in the middle of nowhere).

Anyway, having spent extensive time in both Boston and Detroit, I have a pretty good idea now of what each city can do better than the other. Their pro's, their con's. Strengths and weaknesses. For example, based on my knowledge and my experience, here is a brief list of things that Boston has over Detroit:

• Better crime rate
• Better schools
• Better bar scene
• Better history
• Better employment rate
• Better pay
• Better restaurants
• Better mass transit
• Better hospitals
• Better museums
• Better pro sports teams (based on current success)
• Better looking quarterback (yowza!)
• Better shopping
• Better beer selections

So I guess Boston's a decent town, ya know, if you consider any of those things to be important for whatever reason.  Really, unless your name is Captain Detroit (like my buddy Drew), it's pretty damn tough to put together any type of argument for Detroit over Boston on any sort of large-scale debate. But, that doesn't mean Detroit isn't complete devoid of any sort of  . . . charm?

I feel like talking about Detroit is kind of like talking about your race. I know Detroit is in rut. A loooooooong loooooong rut without all that much hope in sight (though I hope and pray it does find a way out of this rut). And I'll talk shit about Detroit to anyone. But I lived there. I'm allowed to. You can take the boy out of Detroit, but you can't the Detroit out of the boy, etc (despite the fact that I write this as a white boy who grew up in the uber-white middle-class suburb of Sterling Heights, AKA, Sterling Whites, 9 miles from the Detroit city limits). But when I hear people out here talk shit about Detroit, I want to say "fuck you, man. You're not one of us. You can't use those words about Detroit. Only we Detroiters can say that about Detroit" (because I actually went to downtown 4 times a year from the burbs . . . . thug life, holla).

But Detroit does have it's positive points:

• Better music. The "music scene" might be better in Boston, but you can't argue the people repping the cities. Detroit has something for everyone - Eminem, the White Stripes, Kid Rock, Ted Nugent, Bob Seager, Madonna, Iggy Pop and the Stooges, just to name a few. Oh, and it kind of has entire genre named after it in "Motown." But for all of it's history in other aspects in life, Boston comes up pretty damn weak in music. Aerosmith? Overrated. New Kids on the Block? Lame. Dropkick Murphy's? Nobody outside New England cares. And of course, Marky Mark. Though I'm unfamiliar with the origins of his Funky Bunch
• Better casinos. Sure, Boston doesn't have them yet, and thus you have to drive 2 hours to get to one, but technically, Detroit's are then better.
• Lower cost of living. You can buy a house for $100. No seriously. Probably what you might call a "fixer upper."

But the one that matters here is that Detroit by far has better pizza. Boston's got a stranglehold on the restaurant biz on the whole, what with Detroit's infatuation on chain restaurants, but 90% of the pizza out here is generic "(insert city name) House of Pizza." And it's crap.

Though really, pizza is kind of like sex. Even when you have a bad piece of pie, in the scheme of life, it's still pretty damn good.

The 2 best places I've been to out here have been Uno's (for deep dish) and Bertucci's, and both of those are giant chains. And before the yuppie Bostonians start crying, yes, I've had Upper Crust. It's decent, but it's overpriced and overrated, and your opinion of it is wrong.

Hi-Fi Pizza also gets a nod here. But while I've had it 20 or so times (including last night), I still think I've yet to have it less than 5 beers deep and anytime before 1:00am. So the jury is out on it's actual deliciousness. 

But Detroit has a much better batting average when it comes to quality pizza. Pizzapapalis in Greektown is probably my favorite deep dish place around. Buddy's pizza, with its sauce-on-top style is nationally known. The old Backroom in Ann Arbor remains on my list of meals-to-have-on-death-row.

And even the chains around there are good, and unlike Boston, each has their own unique style and taste. Jet's has a phenomenal square sicilian style (something almost no place in Boston does). Hungry Howie's invented the idea of flavored crust years ago. Little Caeser's created the $5 hot-n-ready (though their square is 10x better than their round for some reason) and Domino's invented pizza delivery (yeah, Domino's and Little Caeser's are national, but they're based in Detroit, so Detroit gets the props for the innovations).

So after bitching about Boston pizza for years, it was time to give the 2 most famous places around here a shot at being this city's saving graces for pizza - Santarpio's and Pizzeria Regina. I'd seen and heard about them for years, but never put in the tiny bit of effort required to check them out.

Santarpio's is little hole-in-the-wall by the airport, which means if you go there, you should probably park close and walk fast (like going to Detroit!). And if you need to know more about the decor and atmosphere, I think the extensive beer list will probably give you a good idea about it - Bud, Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Heineken, Rolling Rock and Labatt's (again, kind of like going to any bar in Detroit). But I was there for the food, not the brew. So my friend Joy met me up there for some sausage and garlic "bar pie".

And it was . . . pretty good. Nothing to blow my socks off, but good. Again, there's not really any such thing as bad pizza. But I thought it was just a better than average "bar pie." And while I certainly enjoyed it, I think I was just expecting a little more given the hype (I'm pretty sure these guys paid off the Phantom Gourmet).

So the last hope for Boston Pizza was Pizzeria Regina. It's the old-timey brick oven place in the North End that goes back to 1926, but they recently opened a new site in Allston a mile or so down the road (they have a bunch of food court locations, but I think this might only be their second actual restaurant). So Walter, Robin, Matt and I headed to it a few weeks ago for some more sausage and garlic delightfulness, and it was . . .

fantastic. I think this was the first time that I had "Boston pizza" and was thoroughly satisfied. A good hearty slice (none of this bullshit NY this slice crap) with ample toppings and ample cheese. And thus, the long 7 year journey to find legit Boston pizza FINALLY came to a happy ending.

Random notes:

• If you're under the age of 50, and thus are somewhat familiar with a "reader" or an "RSS feed," I suggest you use the "Subscribe to" feature on the right to subscribe to these posts with the Googles and such. Not that my writing is groundbreaking or anything, but if you're still reading down here after a post about pizza places, then you probably dig me a little, and this will make your life easier. And also because I don't feel like posting every not-amazingly-interesting thing on Facebook.
• This was one of the toughest posts to write. A, because there's only so much you can say about going to 2 pizza parlors. And B, because I 3 other posts to write that are vastly more exciting. Going to Barcelona, going to European soccer/futbol, and as of today, doing the flying trapeze.

Item #17 - Visit the Mall of America

"I love the smell of commerce in the morning!" -Brodie Bruce
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I love my mom. She's fantastic is ever so many ways. However, she can also be . . . a little scary. In fact, back in high school, I basically feared her. When we crossed her, my siblings and I never really got punished in the literal grounded-for-a-week sense of the word.  We were usually punished in the more abstract "mental abuse" sort of way. Break her rules*, and you were usually subjected to hours upon hours of lecturing soliloquies that explained why you were such a disrespectful child. And my god, the cussing in her speeches would make Andrew Dice Clay feel uncomfortable.

*My favorite example - around the age of 15, my bedroom was in the front of the house, and thus, the window faced the street. One day, when she was a cleaning rampage, she threatened to ground me for a week because I left my closet doors open. The reasoning? The criminals can look into my room and learn more about what they could steal from our house.

Anyway, the thought of having to endure any of her infamous lectures was a better deterrent for rule-breaking than any possible grounding could ever be. They were EXCRUCIATING. And what made it even more difficult was the fact that her spying and sleuthing skills would have made the makers of the Patriot Act proud.

Exhibit A - My junior year, I went to a homecoming dance at another high school (let's call it High School A) as a favor to my friend Christy (who later became my girlfriend, who later my my ex-girlfriend). Christy's guy friend had invited a girl, Erika (from High School B), to the dance, but a week beforehand, he found out he couldn't go. So they were left with an extra ticket to the homecoming dance. So Christy asked me (who went to High School C) to go with Erika to High School A's dance. I said yes, and we became the only date I've known of to go to a high school formal in which neither participant went to that particular high school. Staying with me? Good. Anyway, we all go to the dance, a good time is had by all, and I go home. And the first thing my mom says to me is "Why didn't you open the door for her?" Huh? Yes, my mom had "borrowed" the directions to Erika's house, and when I went to pick her up, my mom tailed me, and then parked a few houses down the street, apparently just to make sure I wasn't going out with a $20 whore.

Exhibit B - This one's for my little sister Bridget. I don't know the details, but here's what I do know. Bridget was dating a guy, probably during her early college days. She was home for whatever reason, and her and the new boy went out on a date. He came by our house, and then my sister drove. But at some point during the night, she got a call from my mom, asking how to turn off the boy's car alarm. And why was that necessary? Because my mom had tried to go through his car to find clues on . . . well . . . . I'm not sure exactly what she was looking for. Just know that if you're a girl, and you go out with me, and my mom knows your name, she's probably got your grade school transcript by the time the check for our dinner comes.

So yeah. Between the ever-present paranoia of my mom potentially installing a spy cam in my car, and the fear of her legendary lectures, I was a fairly straight-laced kid in high school. And really, the majority of my friends were too. Most of us didn't start drinking until spring break of our senior year. High school parties from movies like Can't Hardly Wait were myths to us (and yes, I just referenced Can't Hardly Wait. Hopefully you can handle that . . . .Aman . . . . DUH). So we basically spent Friday and Saturday nights in one of 3 places: at the movies (watching stellar films like Can't Hardly Wait), in someone's basement (not drinking), or at the mall. Hell yes, we were mallrats.

 Brodie thinks we were cool

We spent many a weekend night hanging out at Lakeside Mall in our sweet-ass varsity jackets. And you know why they were sweet? Because they had gold sleeves and a purple chest. Oh, and did I mention that we went to an all-guys school? Yeah. Bad . . . ass. And nope, not gay at all.  (I'm 31 now. I've long outgrown the homophobic phase. But a group of 16 year olds at an all guy school? Definitely not there yet. And to kids from other schools, the varsity letters might as well have been scarlet G's on our chests (or purple G's, if the story of Tinky Winky is to be believed)).

And sweet Jesus, Shannon Hamilton would have hated us.

"You're one of those loser fucking mallrat kids. You don't come to the mall to shop or work. You hang out all day, act like you fucking live here. Well, I have no respect for people with no shopping agenda."

Call me Donny . . . call me Joey

Yeah, we were fucking loser mallrat kids. We had no shopping agenda. Buying a Cinnabon was considered a spree. We made laps, or just hung out by the central fountain. And we liked it. We had no trouble making our own fun. We'd have someone pretend to have an injury, limp around the middle of the mall in crutches, and have person B run by and kick-out their crutches, drive-by style, just to enjoy the public's reactions. We were Jack-Ass before there was Jack-Ass . . . . on an exponentially weaker scale, and with probably far less drugs. But we were cool with it. Well, we were cool with it until we discovered beer. Then it was lame. Seriously, who does that shit? Stupid kids.

Well 2 weeks ago, I did that shit again (the mall hanging, not the pseudo-Jack-Ass-ery). My little sister Bridget has been living in Minneapolis for 5 years, and I had yet to get out there to visit her. So it was time. And while I had been there 7 years ago on our guy's annual baseball trip, those trips usually just entail visiting the stadium and visiting the several bars around the stadium while making drunken asses of ourselves. Thus, on my final day of of the visit, we made it out to the monument of consumerism known as the Mall of America, and once again, I did so with no shopping agenda whatsoever (though I did leave with about $100 or so worth of souvenirs of capitalism. U-S-A! U-S-A!). 

Your quick Wikipedia fun facts for this mini-tour:

• The Mall has 520+ stores
• It's the biggest in the US, but it's 2nd in North America behind one in Edmonton. Friggin' Canucks.
• TLC films a show called Mall Cops there. I can only imagine it's as brilliant as the smash hit Paul Blart, Mall Cop (Why America!?! Why!?!)
• There are 4 Caribou Coffee's there
• They have an aquarium and an amusement park

And your quick visual tour:

Not a very impressive sign, but more impressive than . . . 

 . . . the one in the parking lot

Also found in the parking lot, prompting a new list item - have sex in the parking lot of the Mall of America

There was a some sort of dance competition going on the day we were there. I was kind of hoping for either a taping of Truth or Date, or a duet performance by Tiffany and Debbie Gibson

World's Largest Gummy Bear. Guess the total calories (answer at bottom)

The center of the Mall, an amusement park. And you're damn right we rode a roller coaster.

Not much else to say besides thanks to my little sis for bringing me back to my Mallrat roots. And with that, I'll leave you with a little story from the aforementioned King of the Mallrats, Brodie Bruce:

"One time my cousin Walter got this cat stuck up his ass. True story. He bought it at our local mall, so the whole fiasco wound up on the news. It was embarrasing for my relatives and all, but next week, he did it again. Different cat, same results, complete with another trip to the emergency room. So, I run into him a week later in the mall and he's buying another cat. And I says to him, "Jesus, Walt! What are you doing? You know you're just gonna get this cat stuck up your ass too. Why don't you knock it off?" And he said to me, "Brodie, how the hell else am I supposed to get the gerbil out?""

* Gummy Bear calories = 6120 calories

 

Period 1 Intermission

A short break in the blogging action before the 2nd period begins. I went to the Mall of America Sunday (#17), and tonight finished the famous Boston pizza mini-tour (Pizzeria Regina and Santarpio's, #18). But the posting will have to wait as #19 starts tomorrow and #20 will hopefully come Sunday - visit Spain, and see European soccer. That potential #20 is #1 on my lifetime bucket list, so if it does happens, and I do make it into Camp Nou to see the world's best team (FC Barcelona) and the world's best player (Messi), my reaction will probably be best described by boys from Lonely Island.

Until next week.

Item #16 - Visit the MIT Museum

"Life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you might miss it."
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 I grew up in Sterling Heights, MI. My parents lived in the same house until I was 16, and then at the next one until I was 27 (only then did they break my heart and move out of The Heights. I now feel somewhat homeless going back to to visit now. Sigh). Anyway, if you know the suburban Detroit area at all, you know it pretty much ALL LOOKS ALIKE. The entire area is a giant grid, separated by main streets a mile apart, and as flat as can be. Granted, some areas might be more run down than others, but there's only so many differences between the White Castle on 8 Mile and the White Castle on 23 Mile (though I've been to both, and they're both exquisite. Feasts fit for kings). Since the entire area looked alike, I always gave people directions to the new/second house based on landmarks.

I end up having to due to same exact thing in Boston. However, it's less that all the areas look alike, and more because there's NO DAMN STREET SIGNS. The first time my mom came out here, she drove with my sister. I made sure to give them both street sign and landmark directions. Left at the Mobil. Right at Burger King. However, my mother, who is never wrong, spent an hour driving around West Newton before calling me to figure out where the hell she was. Episodes of Fear Factor could be based around my mother trying to drive a van of people to a restaurant in the North End, and seeing who tucks and rolls last.

The main landmark I always used for directions to turn off the main street was a restaurant called The Brewery. Big sign. Very lit up at night. 

 Thanks Google Street View

According to the Googles, The Brewery was a mere 0.3 miles from my house. And due to the vast suburban expanse of Detroit, 0.3 miles there is like a half block away in Boston, or basically living 5 stories above a restaurant in Manhattan. Within 3 months of living there, the bartenders should know you by name. Within 6 months, you should have a Norm Peterson-like tab.

However, in the 11 years my parents lived at that house, after constantly using it as the basis of my directions to my house, I ate at The Brewery  . . . well, never. Besides my parents' fridge, it was literally the cloest place to get food, and yet I never went there. 

After checking out their website, it may be a good thing I never did. What kind of place calls themselves The Brewery and doesn't have a beer list on their website? 

I don't think my parents ever went there either. For some reason, they need to drive a minimum distance to enjoy their meal. Also, they usually need a restaurant to have at least 1,000 nationwide locations to enjoy their meal - they truly love the authentic taste of the Australian Outback (seriously, the last time they visited out here, I made sure to veto all chains before they even arrived). 

Everyone has these places though that are staring them right in their face that they've never been (just ask Babu Bhatt about his Dream Cafe). And the MIT Museum has been one of those places for me. I've drank in Central Square more than any other place in Boston, and I've walked by that museum 20+ times and everytime said "cool, MIT has a museum. I'm a nerd. I bet it's awesome." 7 years of living in Boston later, and I've still never been there. So this past Saturday, on the first weekend without the lack-of-a-social-life safety net of football, I finally decided to check it out.

On the whole, the museum was kind of hit and miss. 33% of the time, it was a vast miss. That 33% was basically MIT giving itself a pat on the back for a job well done over the years, and using the museum as a giant ad for itself right now.  "Hey, look at our faculty! Look at the projects were doing! They'll be life changing, we swear. No Segways around this campus. We're smart!" Meh, could have done without that.

The middling 33% was the more literal "MIT museum." A whole lot of their past on display. Lots of old robots. Cool in theory, but since they weren't actually functioning, you can only see so many metal limbs and wires encased in glass before you're ready to move onto the next exhibit.

The last 33% was the cool 33% (the remaining 1% is attributed to the bathroom. It was fine. Nothing fancy, but I approve).  They had one exhibition that was just holograms.  Some were of the bad-ass variety, including a life-size Bob Marley hologram, while some were of the . . . creepy? . . . variety

The bad-ass variety (same window, different angles)

 The creepy variety

But the best part of the trip was the mechanical engineering nerdstravaganza entitled "Gestural Engineering: The Sculpture of Arthur Ganson." What? You haven't heard of Arthur Ganson? Phhht. Simpleton. Well, neither had I until the exhibit, but now, he's like my hero. Why? Well, he basically made a bunch of mechanism sculptures, and designing mechanisms is basically my favorite part of my job. Except this Ganson guy takes his shit TO THE EXTREME! Or at least as extreme as you can make a bunch of small welded wire sculptures that run on tiny motors. A few examples:

This one makes a chair, destroys it, and then reassembles it. It's fantastic, and you can see it in motion here.

This one was nothing more than an elaborate gear chain . . . a gear train long enough that the amount of time it will take for the last gear to make a full rotation is basically equal to the amount of time the universe has been around. For the non-scientists - that's really freakin long.

 And these were also pretty sweet, but you can only capture so much of a moving sculpture in a stagnant JPG

So if you are an engineer in Boston, and any sort of mechanism occasionally interests you, get your ass down the the MIT Museum, fork over $7.50, and enjoy the show, as this was probably the single coolest, and most relate-able, exhibit I've ever been to.