Pineapple: Yes. Brussels Sprouts: Never!

Some nights, I forget to eat dinner. Other nights, I forget to eat dinner, have a few beers, then venture, dangerously, into the sea of 18th Street establishments that serve up a slice of pizza roughly the size of my head and neck.

Last night, my foolhardy wanderings landed me at the Pizza Mart just south of the Diner. I was not unwise: I had convinced a companion to accompany me in the consumption of this “Jumbo Slice.”

We were to have pineapple on it.

My companion and I approached the pizza man who stood behind the counter. “One slice of pineapple pizza, please,” I said.

The pizza man had a companion of his own: a second man who sat, tapping his foot, behind the register. The two exchanged a sidelong glance before launching into a brief but fiery conversation that, I knew, concerned the pineapple.

“What?” I said.

The standing pizza man turned to me. “We don’t serve toppings beyond cheese and pepperoni past 9 o’clock,” the man explained.

I glanced at my watch. The time was approaching 10 p.m. “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll take cheese, then, please,” I said.

The pizza man’s seated companion became agitated. “Of course not!” he exclaimed. “You’re a lady! We’ll do that! Pineapple, for the lady!”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed, instinctively. But then, as the pizza man prepared my pineapple pizza through the delicate and mysterious Jumbo Slice process, I began to consider the words of the pizza man’s seated companion. I was a lady. And my femininity, it seemed, granted me special powers in this establishment. I glanced suspiciously at my companion, a gentleman. Without me, he would go without pineapple.

The seated man spoke again. “Brussels sprouts!” he exclaimed, his foot tapping harder. “Have you ever tried brussel sprouts?”

“No,” I said.

“Have you ever had grilled brussels sprouts?”

“No,” I said.

“I’ve had steamed brussels sprouts,” claimed my companion.

“Grilled brussels sprouts—excellent!” The seated man exclaimed. “Stick them in there!”—he motioned toward the pizza oven—”Five minutes! Very, very good flavor! Grilled brussels sprouts! I’m telling you! You must try them!”

I recalled the lady-power that I held over the pizza man’s seated companion. But how far did it extend? “When will grilled brussels sprouts appear on the Jumbo Slice menu?” I tried.

The seated man shook his head forcefully. “Never!”

We got our pineapple pizza and ate the shit out of it.