The Pizzaburger

This is not a lazy review. So when I tell you that Joey and I decided, after a long afternoon of ghost strolling the city, that we unanimously (maybe a little divertedly) decided to go to Boston Pizza, it wasn’t without good consideration. Yes, Boston Pizza is famous. So franchisy, it’s an absurd theatric to even bother to give it a review. Blue collars love it; foodies despise it. For cibos, it remains a very guilty pleasure. And I should feel nothing but shame for deciding on it. But Joey is always a good centre for reason and perspective. I’ve reviewed franchises or chains in the past, certainly not nearly as prolific, but what right do I have to deny myself the curiosity of Boston Pizza’s latest pastiche, he says? Besides, Joey and I have been so culinarily curious for the past month we could no longer risk the mutual shame of being those dudes who talk about doing something, but never actually doing it. Losing face is something my Old Master taught me never to do. Ever. That’s why Boston Pizza gets a review. More specifically, why one novel item on Boston Pizza’s menu gets a review. Because one item and a side of fries is all we can really afford. We have debt, we have mortgages, we have condominium investments, and while our assets remain frozen, 14.99 is as much as we’ll feloniously pay. If television hasn’t already told you, or if you’re too cool for television (or the internet), you may not know about the pizzaburger. It’s everything it sounds like. Even though your mind may interpret the name as beef on a pizza, or pizza acting as burger patties, think harder- it’s a kind of panzerotti. Actually, it’s entirely a panzerotti wrapped around a hamburger. Why it wasn’t called a hamburger panzerotti? Joey and I will never know. But don’t worry, we e-mailed corporate. We’ve yet to hear back. Yup, the pizzaburger just might be the obelisk of food novelty. Why else would anyone venture to pay a solid fifteen dollars for something no larger than 6 inches in diameter? Apparently though, when it comes to choice, the pizza burger isn’t novel enough. It only comes in two variations: bacon and pepperoni, or three cheeses. Guess which one we chose? Never mind, I’ll tell you. We ordered bacon and pepperoni. We reckoned there was enough cheese in the mix anyway. Guess what, again? We were wrong. There was also very little sauce, which came as no surprise to the waitress. She said it was the most common complaint; even more common than the pliable premade burger patty clammed inside the chewy wrapping. It sounds less appetizing than it was. Surprisingly, the dough was slight enough that it didn’t overpower the actual burger, nor did it absorb every bit of flavor. There was that slight tang from the usual stock pizza sauce. You know? The kind you taste at every pizza place? With that kind of spectral pepperiness. And what could I say about the cured meats? Pepperoni, bacon: the meatiest combination of dopamine inhibitors in culinary medication. Salty, savoury, smoky. I couldn’t help but lather the entire thing in ketchup. Joey refused to bastardize anything though. To each his own. And when it comes to Boston Pizza’s pizzaburger, I can’t think of a more poignant phrase to use in this situation. 

BOSTON PIZZA 
597 King Street North 
Waterloo, ON, 
N2V 2N3 

(519) 880-1828 

Sundays: 11:00 AM - 12:00 AM 
Mon - Thu: 11:00 AM - 1:00 AM 
Fri - Sat: 11:00 AM - 2:00 AM 

ANY PAYMENT

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Food for Thought

As I spent the night eating in a loud, energetic Boston Pizza, loving the fact that I myself am a sucker for bright lights, open spaces, music, and young, attractive wait staff, I found myself wondering, why? Why would I spent a solid 50 dollars for dinner at a place that offers generic, more or less, everyday American food, when this city is alive with culinary, cultural prowess? Granted, the food was delicious. But that was so expected, so necessary. It tasted like food at a place like Boston Pizza, or East Side Mario's should- generic. Pardon my redundancy (or should you?). On top of that, why deny yourself the opportunity for experience, rather than safety or deja vu, especially when the benefit outweighs the cost? I love a good culinary gamble. And when I spend 6.49 for a starter of yam fries with chipotle sauce, I don't feel very adventurous. I feel, instead, sheltered, uneducated, unsophisticated, ripped off. Foolish. Especially knowing that there is a world elsewhere.

Of course, there is never anything wrong with going to those familiar places. Sometimes you need the food; sometimes you need the "ITIS." But don't limit yourself, dear reader. We're lucky enough to live in a multicultural space con comidas. So I encourage you to eek out every hole in the wall that you can. Not only are you saving your wallet from whatever hole; you're saving the hard workers running those mom and pop shops. You may very well be saving your pallete, as well. But you'll never know until you look around. And besides, the Man has enough money anyway, why give him practically double the money for food you eat practically everyday, and at a franchise for that matter?

So again, I encourage you, as a fathead, who at this very moment is drinking his banana and dragon well tea, to get out there, and look for interesting, delapitated, yet delicious places to eat, where filling meals aren't 50 dollars, but 25 or even 15 for the single person. It's a new world, with more and more new dishes everyday.

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