My First Pizza

My entree to Italian food started in the Mile End district of Montreal in the 1960s, when I took my first bite of pizza. From there, I have never looked back.

Lafayette Pizzeria is still open and serving pizza. It has moved from its original spot on Jeanne Mance and Villenueve to its new location on Bernard and St Urbain.

It was a scorching hot summer day of July of 1966. I was eight years old and carrying something that smelled heavenly inside a square cardboard box. I can remember my brothers and I bringing home the box of an all-dressed pepperoni pizza, straight from the hot ovens of Lafayette Pizzaria on the corner of Villeneuve and Jeanne-Mance. They had opened in 1962, I had later found out, just a few years before our family decided to try something new, to open the doors to experience. This was a five-minute walk from our house on av du Parc, or Park Avenue, as we used to call it. It was in the Mile End neighbourhood of Montreal, a few minutes’ walk also from Mont-Royal, the mountain, our playground.

It was mother’s idea to break, to ignore, to set aside the Jewish dietary laws (called kashrut or kosher), which in this case we broke two: the mixing of dairy and meat, and the eating of pork. I remember my mother telling us not to tell our father. But I forgot and I did. My father, an ardent socialist who did not care much for Judaism (although we half-heartedly followed the major holidays), looked at the box, asked what it was and then grabbed a slice. He enjoyed the pizza as much as we did. This made me happy.

There was no need to worry; my parents were both on the same page, seeing the rabbinical laws as an unnecessary economic and social burden. Our family never again bought “kosher meat,” saving us loads of money and the bland taste of kosher food. Yes, I have had ostensibly high-end kosher cuisine; it is good but nothing to write home about. It comes at a much higher cost. I do not see why anyone would willingly subject themselves to such a way of living. It is only indoctrination and habit, I sense, that feeds and keeps it going. And also fear.

The spell of Jewish tradition was broken then and there, and it no longer had a hold on us. I did not know it then as a young child, but I found out more as I grew older. When, later on, I had given thought about the Jewish dietary laws, in particular, and I have done a fair amount of reading on it, I can only conclude that they are about barriers of separation: barriers of separation between meat and dairy; barriers of separation between Jews and everyone else; and barriers of separation between humans and all other living things, especially non-human animals. Within normative Judaism, there is a series of overlapping and confusing laws, customs and restrictions that dictate the movement of daily life.

These barriers of separation are instituted to keep its people in, to keep people from exploring the wider world, to limit the curiousity innate in all of us. The historical Judaic fears of assimilation, of acculturation and of integration explain the reason for the separation. Yet, it comes at a great cost. To curiosity. To imagination. To creativity. To understanding. To enjoyment of life.

All that is left is ritual and tradition and a community that thinks the same way. If it seems boring, well, it is. It involves so much detailed and exhausting levels of self-exclusion and self-censorship to feel safe. Safe from what? I have seen the dangerous harms and pernicious effects of exclusion, even if it involves the exclusion of self, and it is not pretty or desirable. This is a limited, exhausting and unhealthy way to live, an unexamined life, a fearful life, a life of sameness. Not when it is far better to try to live in a wider and deeper community with acceptance of differences, with understanding and feelings of inclusion and belonging; this is my way, my subjective experience gained by much observation and steady perception. I have always been curious about people, especially if they seem different than I am. It is how I learn, how I discover.

As I do when I try all kinds of cultural cuisines, all kinds of different foods eaten around the world. Food is an entrance-way to understanding. Breaking bread with someone who is not like you is a sign of friendship; it closes the gap of misunderstanding. If you have dietary restrictions, however, dictated by the Judaic laws of kosher, and they are rather extensive, you lose that ability. You are thus separated from that person; the gap remains. In the end, national, tribal or religious affiliation holds little interest to me, chiefly because it separates and places people into categories. Is it truly necessary? I don’t think so.

If I have digressed, I have done so with good reason. To show, although I did not fully comprehend then my mother’s decision, in the summer of 1966, that an all-dressed pepperoni pizza symbolized freedom for my mother, a dissent from restrictions, a push back against authoritarian rule and the barriers of separation that support it. As dissent symbolizes freedom for me, I see my mother in a different light, as quietly courageous. My father, in agreeing with my mother’s decision, did the right thing. Both were going against religious institutional authority, not always easy to do. I applaud and respect them for that decision. It is like freeing a caged bird from captivity. Birds should be free, and so should humans.

That said, I ought now to return to the subject of pizza in the here and now. Since 1966, I have eaten my share of pizza from many places in Montreal, in most major cities in America, including New York and Chicago, and also in many towns and villages. (But not yet in Italy, which I have on my list to visit.) I have had pizza from national chains, from mom-and-pop restaurants, from small kiosks and in people’s homes. I have had thin crust, thick crust, stuffed crust and regular crust. I have tried every imaginable topping, including pineapple (not to my liking) and I can say it is hard to ruin pizza. I have had s few bad pizza days, too greasy for the most part, but thankfully only a few.

I still enjoy pizza, but I no longer have pepperoni or any kind of meat on my pizza, because I eat meat rarely, both for my health and for the health of our nonhuman animal companions. I am moving closer to a plant-based diet. I also now make pizza at home with my wife. It is homemade and healthy, simple to make and we add the toppings and ingredients that we know and like. It is simple delicious comfort food. It is hot from the oven, but without the need for a cardboard box.

Merci et à bientôt.