"You wanna split three slices?" asked Greg when we were at Two Boots in the West Village on Wednesday night.
"I was going to eat two. I always eat two. You're not that hungry?"
"Not really. Colin and Jason are splitting three slices too."
"WHAT? But. Buh." I hesitated for a moment. I didn't really want to outeat three dudes (not that it would've mattered if they were girls) who were probably all more fit than I am, nor make Greg eat more pizza than he wanted just because I couldn't sacrifice half a slice. I AM A TEAM PLAYER. AND I WILL PLAY ON THE 1.5 SLICE TEAM.
And so we did split three slices, although I also bought a chocolate chip cookie and made us share an order of garlic knots to supplement what I thought would be an insufficient amount of pizza.
But to be honest, 1.5 slices is enough; I just always overshoot how much food I need and repeatedly suffer the gastro-intestinal consequences. The first slice goes down about as easily as a whole fish down a pelican's throat. The second slice is when things slow down. But I can eat the whole thing—stomachs expand and organs shift. To a point.
For as long as I can remember, I've been a two-slicer (referring to New York-style pizza, not a personal-sized Neapolitan pie). In my cafeteria-less elementary school upbringing, we'd have a special "Pizza Day" once every few weeks. Pizza Day was the bomb—kids flip their shit over flatbread suffocated by a thick layer of cheese and pools of oil. If I could go back in time, I'd tell my younger self, "Simmer down, dude; the ratio of cheese-to-crust is totally wrong, and it's sort of alarming that underneath the blanket of cheese, the pizza appears to be steadily producing its own supply of fluorescent orange oil." (Of course, my younger self wouldn't give a crap about what I say.) My memories of elementary school pizza fixate on the gross amount of lava-like cheese and oil; the crust is secondary, and I have no idea where the tomato sauce went.
Kids either got one or two slices, as determined in the beginning of the year when we filled our our pizza order forms. I'm sure there was a time when I only got one slice—I wasn't born with an adult-sized appetite—but I can't remember it. I must've thought the one slicers were nuts. I got two slices. All the time.
And it showed in my girth. Up until 3rd grade I was pretty average, but after that I got a case of the chubbs. I have a distinct memory of one day when, after everyone in my gym class got weighed by the nurse, my best friend at the time asked me how much I weighed. I was embarrassed to tell her because she was a skinny little Korean girl that I could probably crush. On retrospect, I'm lucky I wasn't picked on more. (Sidenote: that best friend of five years ended up dumping me from her friends roster in 4th grade, probably because I was terribly uncool.) Today, my metabolism seems to keep my two slice habit in check, along with, you know, the gazillion other unhealthy things I eat (yesterday for lunch I ate FRIED CHICKEN AND CAKE, both really good).
According to this poll on Slice from December 35% of the poll takers—adults, I'm assuming—think one average-sized slice of pizza is good enough for lunch. I could only see that working if the one slice were two slices stuck together, but even Adam Kuban said he could do with one slice...supplemented by snacks throughout the day.
In conclusion: I don't really have one. I just thought about the "# of slices / meal" thing since I ate those 1.5 slices from Two Boots for dinner on Wednesday, followed by two slices from Pizza Suprema for lunch on Thursday, and as far as I know I've eaten two slices per meal every since I could eat pizza. This usually works pretty well with average sized slices, unless the pizza is topped with tortellini, in which case, one slice is all you need, and you should probably be drunk while you're eating it.
Next post will be full of food porn—I promise!