My very first pizza memory was formed at Pizza Hut. It was a much simpler and better time back then: The company offered all-you-can-eat buffets, and being 15 I had not only the stomach for it but also the metabolism that prevented any weight gain despite my routine bingeing. I still remember the fateful day my band mates and I first traipsed into a Pizza Hut restaurant, our white-hot excitement burning fervently as our raging hormones.
Pizzas after pizzas neatly arrayed on the buffet table, the glare from the heat lamps only accentuating their intricate and glistening beauty. Ribbons of stringy cheese left behind by stupid patrons. The salad bar, which I skipped. Being a neophyte, a dreamer in this big bad world, untethered from his parents for the first time and now suddenly conferred the chance to make a decision on his own, I chose this unassuming slice stippled with yellow and pink.
So simple, yet so profound. I imagine the creator of this pizza wanted tasters to be whisked away to the tropical country. And I was. After taking my first bite, I had visions of tiki torches, visions of my ambling along sandy beaches with lei hung around my neck, wind in my hair, nary a care in the world. I was dancing the Hula freely until the restaurant manager tackled me off the buffet table for “hygiene purposes”.
And then there was Super Hawaiian. I thought of a place where the people wore twice as many garlands, owned twice as many tiki torches and had colourful outfits twice as bright.
As you can see, banning pineapples on pizzas is banning imagination.
Do not get me wrong. I am not a weirdo nor am I one for new-fangled tastes. On any normal day, I would not deign to pair ham or any other meat with pineapples. But for some reason, they marry impeccably on this flat disc of burnt edges. In this age of Donald-Trump nonsense, should we not celebrate the coming together of disparate identities? Are we all not ham and pineapples on dough, just waiting to unite in this inferno of chaos?
I implore you to rethink your stance, because your ban would set a precedent. Because what is next? French fries should not be dipped in ice cream? Nutella should not go with, well everything? Where do we draw the line? At which point do we stop this madness?
I apologise if my passion for pineapple pizza toppings has me all riled up. Equally fervent is my obsession with Iceland’s geysers and waterfalls and beaches. At your behest, I’d most gladly fly to Iceland on a sponsored trip to talk this matter of most importance in person.
Pineapple Pizza Lover