I admit I'm a bit late to the game on this, as this topic has already garnered some attention from the interwebs, but, Elana and I are just a small sister-bro operation here; so cut us some slack.
Still, I suspect many of you are unaware as to what the title of this blog post actually references. You're probably thinking, "Is Frito-Lay making their own Pizza?" Or, "John, are you talking about Fried pizza?" It's not about either, actually. Let's just cut to the chase here: recently, I ordered a pizza from Papa John's - an act of likely stupidity perhaps it its own right. Yet this wasn't just any ol' Papa J's pie... this was a pizza that was purposefully topped with, among other things, Fritos. (Read that sentence again).
Everyone here should be familiar with Papa John's and their skeptical but seemingly everywhere "Better Ingredients. Better Pizza. Papa Johns!" advertising campaign that it rams down our throats every other day and twice on NFL Sundays (which, actually, is the only way I could ever eat this pizza again. If it was literally rammed down my throat). Hey, even Peyton Manning has shamelessly offered his support behind the brand, which really means jack shit of course, unless however you think you should be taking food and lifestyle advice from a dad-jeans wearing country boy who spends 4 hours every Sunday with his hands pressed firmly up against a 300 pound dude's sweaty grundle.
On a recent day at work, I mustered up the courage to actually go out and buy one of these pizzas. Notice the unintentionally funny "pizza maker/play maker" box.
For the first time, I was actually scared to eat a pizza; on one end of the spectrum, I might have a gag reflex or spend the rest of the afternoon in the men's room. On the other end, what if I actually liked the pizza? What would that even say about me as a person? As a man? As an Italian son? I closed my office door, sat down at my desk, and took a deep breath.
Opening the box was bit like the immediate aftermath of the Con Edison shut down of the Ghostbusters' containment unit. Indescribable scents were attacking my poor nostrils. I couldn't believe what I was experiencing. I may have coughed, I can't remember. I may have blacked out, too.
(Newsflash, only dingbats douse their pies with needless goop like ranch dressing or, in this case, garlic sauce)
I'm going to be honest: whatever lunatic dreamed up this pizza is an asshole. Ditto for anyone who likes it. Getting behind this pizza in any way shape or form essentially tells me you are a tactless imbecile. Never mind that this pizza makes an otherwise innocent bystander (Fritos) guilty by association, but it is amazingly bad. Let's discuss.
The Fritos, most of which fall off, are stale. I mean, I could not even pick the Fritos off the pie and enjoy them separately (although I'm not sure I would even want to anyway since they just spent the last few minutes wading in this mess). The tomatoes have no tang or sweetness. The cheese, if i was to place them on taste's hierarchical ladder, would be somewhere below ice cubes drizzled with novocaine. But where this pizza really starts to go bunny-in-the-pot crazy is in its application of bbq sauce which - if we are going to be honest with one another, has as much business being on pizza as garden mulch - is way too strong and salty. Thankfully, the geniuses at Papa-John's offset the alkaline nature of the sauce with ground beef/taco meat. Except I'm being sarcastic. I'm not thankful for this. I'm horrified. This only expedites the pie's tumble down its spiral of spectacular shittiness.
Who put thought into creating this? Fraternity pledge-masters? Stoned 1st graders? Guantanamo interrogators? It's really that bad, I'm not exaggerating. And, look, I am a man who both needs and appreciates the occasional detour down roads of unrationalizable fun. Funnel cakes, McDonald's fries, beer pong, Rocky IV - these are all harmless, Americana-born lapses in judgment that can nonetheless be enjoyed with mere modest suspension of belief or awareness. But this... this is something far worse. This is a speeding runaway train that is on fire, transporting toxic waste, while Rebecca Black blares on its loud speakers.
I finished my lone slice (which, actually, featured somewhat fresh, spongy dough I should disclose) and contemplated our country's future. Really. How did we get to this point? I mean, it's 2015 (almost). Aren't we supposed to be getting smarter with our foods and what we put into our body? Isn't America in the midst of an artistic/lifestyle comeback of sorts? It's a bit demoralizing to be honest.
I suppose there will always be idiots in this world; climate change deniers, snake wielding preachers, the Kardashians, New York Jets fans (of which I'm one), etc. The expression of such foolery is a part of the American way and, occasionally, can even ultimately yield masterful creations, like the cronut or cornhole. But, I don't envision the Frito pizza heading down this path.
Now, excuse me while I watch the new Expendables movie.