Nosmo King
Gold Member
The best pizza shop in town went out of business seven years ago. Orlando's Pizza was a mainstay here from 1953. The owner/operator, Orlando, pushed out large Sicilian (square cut) pizza. He was perpetually covered in flour and displayed a .45 revolver on the butcher block counter where he kneaded and rolled the dough. I think the gun would have exploded in his hand if he ever had to fire it as it too was perpetually covered in flour.
Orlando worked the big gas ovens in a mysterious way. A pan of pizza was slid into the second oven from the top, another was in the top oven and taken out to have mor sauce spread on it then slid into the bottom oven. Meanwhile, in the third oven, a pan would be taken out and laden with cheese. Orlando tended to sweat over the pizza and more than once I watched as a bead of sweat rolled down his nose and onto the pie. In the old days, when smoking held no unpleasant connotation, the ash from his Lucky Strike would flavor the sauce too. The place smelled of oregano, flour, Brycreem and cigarettes.
I remember as a wee bairn not being able to see over the counter. But Orlando would snap off a piece of dough about the size of a golf ball and toss it to the little kids to play with. Of course those drams of dough went home and eventually got stomped into Mom's carpet. As a teenager, I would visit Orlano's, sometime with a date. Orlando would slip in a couple extra slices if you brought a girlfriend.
Later, as an adult, Orlando and I would discuss the trials and tribulations of the Pittsburgh Pirates. It was fun in the Roberto Clmente and Willie Stargell era, less enjoyable during the 20 years of Pirate losing seasons.
Orlando was a devotee of trivia and would quiz his customers. If you knew what the only man made object visible from space, you could walk out with a few free slices.
The pizza sold for 20 cents a slice and probably cost Orlando a dime to make. Pepperoni and mushroom and extra cheese were the only toppings at Orlando's.
Every four years the high school alumnae association throws a big all class reunion. Expatriates of my home town flood back home. Everyone wants Orlando's pizza. Alas, I want Orlando's too.
Orlando worked the big gas ovens in a mysterious way. A pan of pizza was slid into the second oven from the top, another was in the top oven and taken out to have mor sauce spread on it then slid into the bottom oven. Meanwhile, in the third oven, a pan would be taken out and laden with cheese. Orlando tended to sweat over the pizza and more than once I watched as a bead of sweat rolled down his nose and onto the pie. In the old days, when smoking held no unpleasant connotation, the ash from his Lucky Strike would flavor the sauce too. The place smelled of oregano, flour, Brycreem and cigarettes.
I remember as a wee bairn not being able to see over the counter. But Orlando would snap off a piece of dough about the size of a golf ball and toss it to the little kids to play with. Of course those drams of dough went home and eventually got stomped into Mom's carpet. As a teenager, I would visit Orlano's, sometime with a date. Orlando would slip in a couple extra slices if you brought a girlfriend.
Later, as an adult, Orlando and I would discuss the trials and tribulations of the Pittsburgh Pirates. It was fun in the Roberto Clmente and Willie Stargell era, less enjoyable during the 20 years of Pirate losing seasons.
Orlando was a devotee of trivia and would quiz his customers. If you knew what the only man made object visible from space, you could walk out with a few free slices.
The pizza sold for 20 cents a slice and probably cost Orlando a dime to make. Pepperoni and mushroom and extra cheese were the only toppings at Orlando's.
Every four years the high school alumnae association throws a big all class reunion. Expatriates of my home town flood back home. Everyone wants Orlando's pizza. Alas, I want Orlando's too.