“Funny you should mention pet peeves, M.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“That time.”
“Oh, right. That time. And since we’re talking about pet peeves.”
“You know what gets my goat?”
“What?”
“People referring to pizza as ‘pies’. When did that become a thing again?”
“I don’t know, Em. It’s a thing again?”
“Yes it is, my friend. It’s a thing again. ‘How do you like the pie?’ ‘What do you want on the pie?’ Maybe if you didn’t dislike pizza so much, you’dve noticed this trend.”
“I don’t dislike pizza. You know that. It’s just—”
“I know, I know. It’s just fancy bread with condiments on top. So you’ve said.”
“Exactly. Pizza’s fine. I just don’t know what all the fuss is about pizza.”
“Well, if you did. You’d know everybody is out there calling pizza the pie.”
“Which gets your goat.”
“Which drives me nuts, yeah. It is a current pet peeve of mine, referring to pizza as a pie.”
“So you were saying when we were talking about pet peeves that one time.”
“Do they think it elevates the concept of pizza somehow?”
“Beats me.”
“Well… just theorize a little bit with me here. What’s to be gained by referring to pizza as a pie, do you think?”
“I don’t know. It makes you feel cool like Dean Martin?”
“Who?”
“Dean—Are you fucking with me right now, Em?”
“No. Who the hell is Dean Martin?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As serious as the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie. Nobody wants to be cool like Dean Martin these days. It’s 2026.”
“Which was your point with the who’s Dean Martin business. I get it. HaHa. Just do not be underestimating the timeless cool of the Rat Pack, young lady.”
“Yeah. Like all the kids are hankering to be a drunk, misogynist racist.”
“You calling Dean Martin a racist? I think Sammy Da—”
“Don’t even bother with that. Just rest assured that nobody’s calling pizza a pie because they want to be cool like Dean Martin.”
“Well, that’s my best guess and now I’m all out of ideas.”
“My theory is, that calling a pizza the pie is for a little cultural cache. Is what I’m thinking.”
“OK. Go on as if I might be paying close attention.”
“It’s a shot across the bow of haute cuisine, you know what I’m saying?”
“Not really. But I haven’t entirely stopped listening.”
“I get it, I get it! You don’t care about pizza.”
“Saying I don’t care about pizza, Em, is suggesting that I have strong feelings any way about pizza.”
“Which you don’t. I know, I know.”
“And yet, here we are. Discussing pizza.”
“Well, you’re the one who brought up pet peeves, dumbass. If you didn’t want to talk about pizza, why bring up the subject of pet peeves? You know my feelings about pizza. About pizza being called a pie. You had to know where this conversation was heading…”
“My bad, yeah.”
“It’s posturing, is what it is. Ironic posturing in an attempt to make it socially acceptable to stand in line for pizza.”
“See? That’s the thing. I would never stand in line for a pizza.”
“Because you dislike pizza. So you—”
“Nope. I would never stand in line for any type of food. I wouldn’t do it.”
“What about ice cream?”
“Nope.”
“Not even for a minute? On a steamy, hot summer night? And all the grocery stores were closed?”
“In that situation, five minutes at most. I’d stand in line for five minutes for ice cream in a pinch. If I really wanted some ice cream. Which I very rarely do. Want ice cream enough to stand in line.”
“What about a donut?”
“Nope.
“Not even those Tiny Toms from a food truck at a street festival?”
“Again. Five minutes max. How long would you stand in line?”
“For Tiny Toms?”
“For any food. Tiny Toms. Ice cream. A steaming hot pie right out of the—”
“Don’t.”
“Standing in line waiting for food of any kind is a ridiculous proposition. My two cents.”
“What about in a refugee camp?”
“Em.”
“I’m just saying. Don’t be so dogmatic.”
“You’re the one getting all up in my grille about people calling pizza a pie! That somehow makes me dogmatic?”
“I just think it’s pretentious, is all.”
“No argument from me.”
“Nobody thinks you’re from Naples, Cody, just because you call pizza a pie.”
“I knew a Cody Bartucci once.”
“You did not.”
“He wasn’t from Naples though, you’re right. Somewhere up north, I think. Up Milano way. He hated pizza. Wouldn’t be caught dead eating pizza, let alone calling it a pie.”
“Cody Bartucci wouldn’t be caught dead eating pizza?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“What completely made-up Italian wouldn’t be caught dead eating pizza?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Codey Bartucci likes his bread plain? As is. With a little dunk of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. We didn’t discuss the subject in detail.”
“Cody Bartucci and you?”
“We discussed many things, Cody Bartucci and I. That was not a subject that ever came up.”
“I don’t know what’s worse, M. What’s more bougie. People who hate pizza or people who call pizza a pie.”
“And as I’ve been saying all along, Em, I fall into neither camp. Pizza is fine. It’s OK. Nice when you have a hankering. And never have I referred to it as a pie.”
“So why are we even having this conversation?”
“You and your pet peeves is why.”
“You brought the subject up.”
“That time, I remember.”
“That time, yes.”
“But I will give you this, Em. At least we didn’t talk about Donald Trump for a whole five minutes. That’s not nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“In fact, that’s something.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I owe you one.”