"Y’know, Neil, you’re kind of a whack job," my brother was saying. "Are you sure we’re related?"

I told him he was just jealous he hadn’t thought of it first.

"Thought of what?"

It was a good question.

On a chilly Wednesday evening in November, I was sitting on my parents’ couch with my younger brother Drew as we watched The West Wing. He was home on a brief break from his matriculations at Kellogg Business School at Northwestern University, while I was taking a few days away from my home in New York prior to the start of pre-production of a new film project.

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With my younger sister Leigh stuck working in Manhattan, dinner was just the four of us, and at some point during the meal, my family asked me about my "Eating Plan" for the five days I’d be around.

This is something of a running joke in the Turitz household, as everyone knows I am sure to eat several things whenever I return home: double cheeseburgers and ice cream sundaes at the Dairy Queen on Main Street in Westbrook; the world famous french fries at The Pier in Old Orchard Beach, as well as the lesser-known pizza burgers served at the little grill across from the Carousel; and at least one and as many as four pizzas at Ricetta’s.

As usual, a general disagreement arose about whose pizza was best. Drew and I both loved Ricetta’s, but Mom liked Bill’s Pizza at the Beach and Dad was a devotee of Angelone’s. An argument ensued, and there were several times when we all spoke at once.

God love family, am I right?

When we ran out of gas at the table, Drew and I retired to the living room to watch the tube. Mom joined us for a few minutes to chat, but after we shushed her one time too many, she split. As she walked away she tossed out the fact that my aunt and uncle happened to enjoy the taste of the Portland House of Pizza. I remembered it as – along with the Pizza Joint, Pizza Plus and the others mentioned – one of the several we visited as youths.

That’s when it clicked. I sat up with a start and told Drew what we must do.

"We hit all the places we used to go when we were kids," I told him, "revisiting them as adults to see if they stand up to memory. We in our deliberations can decide the all-time World Champ of Portland Pizza."

“We in our deliberations can decide the all-time World Champ of Portland Pizza.”

Drew pointed out that using a term like "world champ" while limiting it to the greater Portland area was something of an oxymoron, but I was undeterred.

"We can hit them all, rank them accordingly and determine the best."

I was getting really excited now.

"We’ll be legends."

This was about the time my brother questioned my parentage.

Ultimately, Drew didn’t put up much of a fight, since asking him to eat a lot of pizza isn’t exactly an arm-twisting experience. He even proved a calmer head when, in my overeagerness, I suggested hitting all six places in one day.

"You’re an idiot. If you’re leaving Sunday, that gives us three full days to do this, so let’s do two per day, finishing Saturday night at Ricetta’s. In fact," he snapped his fingers and pointed at me, "that’s where we can have our awards ceremony."

We established the rules: We would eat cheese and pepperoni slices at each place and judge in the following categories: Best Cheese. Best Pepperoni. Best Crust. Best Sauce. Best Overall Cheese Slice. Best Overall Pepperoni Slice. World Champ of Portland.

Thursday came along and we were off. First up: Angelone’s, with Portland House of Pizza to follow. We didn’t really have high hopes for either place, to be honest, as how good could they really be if we never ate there anymore?

We strolled in to the small establishment on Washington Avenue, a place in which I didn’t think I’d set foot in 15 years. Yet it looked exactly as I remembered, like a Rockwell painting or an old, sepia-toned photograph sitting in an album you flip through on occasion.

We made small talk with the owner, a handsome blonde woman who welcomed me back after I told her I hadn’t been by in years. It was nice. Down home.

Pleasant.

And it all too soon came to a sudden, crashing end when she handed us our pies and I asked if she had any Parmesan for me to sprinkle on top.

"Grated cheese?!" Her voice grew shrill and a vein appeared over her left eye. "You want to ruin this pizza with grated cheese?! Are you crazy? Do you have any idea of the quality, the cost of the mozzarella I use? And you want to desecrate it by sprinkling GRATED CHEESE on my pizza?"

That’s when I started to cry. I stuttered and stammered and eventually blubbered an apology, slinking away to the booth where Drew was already sitting, shaking his head at me.

"Like a chef," she ranted, "putting ketchup on a filet mignon!"

"Nice," Drew said as I recovered. "You have a way with people."

Oh, boy, was she right about that cheese. Dynamite. Stupendous. Kiss-your-fingers-in-a-flourish delectable. Just the right edge to go with the understated sauce and crisp crust. The pepperoni was solid, if unspectacular, but, my goodness, was that cheese outstanding.

"Wow." I said. "Gonna be tough to beat."

"Yup," Drew agreed. He can be very eloquent.

After I prostrated myself once more in further apology, we drove down the road to the House of Pizza, where we told the manager that this was our aunt and uncle’s favorite place.

He seemed pleased, if at something of a loss for words. When the pizza came, Drew told me I couldn’t go anywhere near the grated cheese (thankfully, on the table waiting for us this time) until we’d actually tasted the pie, so as to keep things scientific.

The verdict? Not bad. Tasty, certainly, but Angelone’s was just better.

"Tough luck for these guys," I said.

Drew agreed. "Maybe we should’ve come here first, so they could’ve been the leaders for a few minutes. Self esteem and all."

That night, Mom said she’d told many of her friends about our little adventure and they all thought it was a terrific idea. Hilarious, even. I smiled at Drew.

"I told you. Legends."

"Yeah," he nodded. "When I head back to Central America next summer, I’m sure the mountain tribes will be singing folk songs about us."

We actually hit a third place Thursday night when the four of us headed down to Old Orchard Beach — which looked awfully strange in the cold of late fall with almost no people about, the sidewalks rolled up and the whole area opened to car traffic— and ate at Bill’s. Though we go there every time we come home, this time the context was different and we looked at it through fresh eyes. The well-done pie, a Bill’s specialty, was delicious, with a thick, doughy crust that was soft and tender in the middle and nicely crisp at the edges. That category, we agreed, had itself a new leader. Old Bill would be proud.

Friday meant Pizza Joint and Pizza Plus, the two places I most frequented while a student at Deering High School in the late 1980s. First up was the Joint, which was terrific. Though a bit on the greasy side, it was an excellent overall slice with a tangy sauce and nice cheese, though still not as good as Angelone’s.

The pepperoni, however, was another story entirely – spicy and hot, with a unique and not-unpleasant aftertaste.

"Outstanding," Drew said.

"Aces," I answered.

We felt obligated to head back inside and tell the man behind the counter of our expedition and that the Pizza Joint’s pepperoni was far and away the best we’d tried.

"Dude," he nodded. "Thanks."

He tipped his paper cap at us and went out of his way to shake our hands, even though it was incredibly clear to all of us that he had no earthly idea what we were talking about.

Invigorated by the start of the day’s eating, we motored south to Pizza Plus, which, interestingly, bore a sign in front bragging that it had "Maine’s Best Crust."

"That," I pointed to the sign, "is a bold statement."

Sadly, it proved to be false advertising. Good crust, but certainly not the best we’d tried, much less the best in Maine. The sauce, however...

"I feel we owe it to these people," I said, "to alert them to their misapprehension."

Drew thought this was probably a bad idea, but I couldn’t be dissuaded. I was, after all, out to help.

"I think you should change your sign out front," I told the young woman behind the counter.

"Which sign? The Pizza Plus sign?"

"No, ma’am. The ‘Maine’s Best Crust’ sign."

"Why?"

"Because we..." I turned to include Drew, but he was on his way out the door, obviously in a face-saving move. Smart boy. I turned back to her. "Sorry, I think you have fantastic sauce, and it’s much better than the crust."

"But we have the best crust, too."

"See, I’d dial that down. You guys should advertise your strength, which is the sauce."

She looked at me like she was trying to decide if I was kidding or just some kind of deranged psycho unleashed to make her day more difficult.

"You don’t like the crust?"

"No, I do like it, but..."

"We wouldn’t put the sign out there if it wasn’t true."

"Okay, that’s a good point, but I’m trying to help you out here."

"Because you like the sauce."

"Yes."

"And we appreciate it." She smiled brightly. Truly a brilliant retort that left me speechless. I thanked her and went outside to see Drew leaning against the car, grinning.

"So, how’d it go?"

I didn’t answer, just climbed into the passenger seat. As he was pulling the car out of the lot, he looked back at me. "Are they gonna change the sign?"

"They’re taking it under advisement."

Friday night, Drew and I joined Mom at the Pirates game, where she asked what the rankings were so far. We reminded her that this was a precise, scientific venture and it would not be in anyone’s best interests to prematurely reveal the results.

She was, shall we say, non-plussed.

With the arrival of Saturday came the ordering of a couple Ricetta’s pies (one half-cheese, half-pepperoni, the other a Bolto, just because) and the final discussion.

First of all, we acknowledged that Ricetta’s was clearly still our favorite. In fact, I continued, only a couple places in New York and one, interestingly, in Trenton, New Jersey, rivaled its quality. Drew agreed, and we honored Ricetta’s with the title of World Champ of Portland.

I mentioned that handing this one out first might make the rest of the evening anti-climactic, but Drew reminded me that it wasn’t The Oscars. We were not on television or in black tie, but rather in t-shirts and jeans at our parents’ kitchen table, which I thought was an excellent point.

Pizza Plus did, indeed, win Best Sauce, while Bill’s took home Best Crust and Pizza Joint got both Best Pepperoni and Best Pepperoni Slice. Beside the top prize, Ricetta’s also nabbed Best Cheese Slice, but not, interestingly, Best Cheese. That one went to Angelone’s, as did an additional nod we came up with on the spur of the moment. After much argument about the specific wording, it came to this:

"Special Judge’s Award for Far Surpassing Unfairly Low Expectations and Jolting Certain Heathens into the Uselessness of Grated Cheese."

We gave our contestants and ourselves a rousing standing ovation, even the shut-out Portland House of Pizza, and retired to the couch to watch a college football game featuring Drew’s alma mater, Stanford, on ESPN. It was about halfway through the second quarter when a thought hit me and I looked at Drew.

"Y’know," I reached out and tapped his shoulder, "there are a lot of good burgers in this town, too."

"Now," he shook his head firmly without ever looking at me, "you’re just being silly."

Neil Turitz graduated from Deering High School in 1989, two years prior to his brother Andrew. Neil graduated from Columbia University in 1993, two years prior to Andrew's graduation from Stanford University. Neil worked as a writer for the New York Post and Us Magazine and a freelance journalist for publications like Rolling Stone, Men's Journal and Cosmopolitan before writing and directing his first film, the romantic comedy "Two Ninas," currently available on video. His next project, a comedy called "Knots," will be filmed in the spring. Andrew worked in the internet industry for years and is now in the midst of his first year at the Kellogg Business School at Northwestern University. Both men have a lifelong love of pizza.

From the December 2001 issue of Portland Monthly

©2001 Portland Monthly Magazine