In Defence of Pizza and Wine
If I can get the screw to pierce the head of the cork in a good enough place, as close to the middle as I can, being able to grip the cool but not cold bottle, and then pull, or in my case, lever the the now stabbed cork out of the neck feels effortless. If done with enough deftness I might even get a pleasing squeak as it leaves its glass holding cell. A squeak like a gasp from the £7 bottle of red, finally getting a chance to take a breath, ready to fulfil its purpose of making me feel alright about everything, for at least the rest of the evening. This aerating Australian red is not alone in this task.
Being checked on by an eager chef through the glass window of an eye level oven, is my pizza. No pizza is as good as one made by someone who throws it into a box like they couldn’t care less about it. The buzzer goes. Rising to open the door it rings again, the delivery driver is clearly very keen to get my pizza pie to me with as much heat in it as possible. They, too, understand how much I’ve needed this night.
That unspoken bond between deliverer and benefactor is a sacred one. It’s a relationship built on trust and an understanding that for a prompt arrival, the reception too must be swift, the less spoken the better. A simple ‘here’s your order’ followed by a polite but firm ’thank you’ or ‘cheers bud’ combined with a nod of the head. You could think the reason for this type of transaction is because they have a busy night ahead and it’s actually not about you, but I think we all know it’s because they understand the vital role they’re playing in your big night.
Resting the box down, its warm smell fills the space. Opening the lid, the light swish of cardboard on cardboard reveals my pizza. Neapolitan, crispy, fresh. Islands of mozzarella in a San Marzano sea that you could dive into and perhaps, with a lashing of chilli oil to spark the flavours into a frenzy. Ready for me to pick up a clumsily floppy slice. First, the wine needs to find itself at the bottom of a glass, once it’s in, don’t forget to give it a swirl and a sniff because I’m a classy bitch. Decision time, to drink first and then bite or bite first then drink? After the process starts one will follow the other like night stalks day, but how to begin? However the hell you want is the correct answer.
Pairings don’t matter, not here in this haven. If you want, you could make the effort of finding the right wine for your pizza but the only thing that matters is that you enjoy yourself. That may mean letting yourself go wild and have a brittle red with a margarita, when by rights you should be having a zesty Pinot.
This experience needs to be observed with some reverence. In a time of stress, when we can’t meet our friends or hug the ones we love who reside outside of our own box, it’s vital that we make a point of doing things that feel special. No matter how mundane, our brains and bodies, starved of contact and stimulus beyond our colleagues' homes on video, need to be made to feel that this is different. You should allow yourself to be lulled into a false sense of excitement or as close as you can get. For me that’s a face mask, dressing up in something that makes me feel nice and listening to some belting pop while I watch a dot on a map get ever closer to my door to bring me my fresh, hot pizza.
The box, along with my glass, has gotten lighter and the cheese has cooled down. I may finish off the remaining slices now or even better the next morning. For now I get to nurse the remaining booze and watch a film that’s new or a series that I’m able to quote like I learned it in primary school. Finding these little things that make us feel good is what gets us through the expanses of time between the next pizza and wine night or equivalent harmless joy.
Now is not the time for being hard on ourselves. You’re allowed to sink into your indulgences at a moment where going to a bar is illegal and by not doing it, you’re helping the greater good. There’s no other time in the rest of our lives when this will be the case. Embrace the crust dipped into barbecue sauce and the wine so sweet you might ask it on a date. I’ve finished my feast and the drink is nearly gone, there’s nothing more for me to do now except enjoy the rest of this episode and text my mum and tell her I love her. She will inevitably respond ‘what’s wrong?’ and I can truthfully reply that, at this moment, nothing.
