Jim's Pizza

This past weekend, as we stood in the checkout queue at Urban Outfitters in Bloomington (judge not lest ye be judged, as the Man said), the only thing more conspicuous than the all-out corporate commodification of youth culture was the intense déjà vu. Where had we seen stonewashed jeans like that before?  

And then it hit us like a wall of unsold Third Eye Blind CDs. The chirpy young saleslady at the counter was wearing a straight-up midnineties pair of Phoebe Buffay jeans, cinched up with one of those godawful braided belts they practically handed out like flu shots at the beginning of 1990. She wasn't unique, though; the mannequins (or salespeople?) scattered throughout this hipster simulacra were all rocking something reminiscent of that decade. Long floral dresses, half-shirts, and neon colors abounded. The kids know; the nineties are back. 

And why not? It was a time of charismatic rock 'n' roll front-men (Scott Weiland, anybody?), over-sized vests, Wrestlemania VI through XV, and shoe-boxes overflowing with those free trial AOL CDs. Also: you could get a pizza delivered to your house in 30 minutes or less. Or it was free. 

Sure, there was Drexell's Class and Monica Lewinsky. And yes, asking delivery drivers to risk their lives and the lives of countless others for the sake of some bastard's greasy pizza was perhaps a short-sighted phenomenon. But pizza at your door in 30 minutes or less? Those were the days. 

And then there was the other day, when we waited nearly two hours for a pizza from Jim's.

Jim's occupies a modest shack on Home Avenue, not far from Mulligan's or Ned's. But location, unfortunately, is the only thing the three have in common. The pizza and service at Jim's is a lot like You've Got Mail: lackluster, warmed-over, and missing even the slightest bit of urgency or effort. 

We called in our order on a Thursday night at 6:30pm. A myriad of online reviews noted the sometimes mind-boggling (and seemingly unnecessary) wait time at Jim's, so we ordered early and expected to sit around. The pleasant lady on the phone told us it would be an hour and a half. Ninety minutes seemed like a stretch (this isn't Guy Fieri's Johnny Garlic's, after all. Nor was it Super Bowl Sunday) but we chose to believe that it was an exaggeration carefully calculated to leave a good taste in our mouths when the pizza arrived in less than half that time. 

Nope. 

As it turned out, she meant every one of those 90 minutes, plus about 25 more. When the pizza arrived at nearly 8:30, we were pretty put-off. And really hungry.

Unfortunately, Jim's wasn't going to satisfy us much on that front, either. 

We would feel guilty saying this if we felt like there was some Herculean effort into turning out a high-quality product here. It just seems very obvious that there isn't. The crust is possibly from-scratch, but it's without a hint of seasoning: salt, garlic or otherwise. The toppings are okay, but aggressively bland in a "Monarch Food Systems, Inc." sort of way. The toppings and the cheese all migrated near the middle, leaving puddles of thick, fruity sauce at the edges to be choked down in some final unsatisfying bites. Cheese on this pizza is strange—perhaps it's laid down in slices? Our guess is that it's very similar to whatever Kraft singles are made of, which as every nine year old instinctively knows almost liquefies when heated. 

Though the restaurant's official name is "Jim's Pizza," black block-letters on the side of the building spell out "Jim's Pizza and More." The sprawling menu—complete with such dubious options as a 50-piece bucket of fried chicken and mac-and-cheese nuggets—indicates that perhaps the folks at Jim's are focusing too much on the "More," at the expense of the "Pizza."

Warning: egg rolls may not be edible. 

Call us naive, call us single-minded. But nobody's favorite pizza joint also offers killer egg rolls. Nobody's. 

The good news here is that we did find someone who thinks Jim's is alright. 

"Who cares if we're out of dog food? We still have half of a meat-lovers pizza in the trunk of the car."

He's no food critic, but he thinks that tired, old sauce really comes to life when it's smeared across his lips. We're inclined to agree.

Yogi's Pizza

Sometimes you just want to eat pizza. But you also need to rent a storage unit, browse discarded bits of Americana, and, ideally, see a man about a port-a-potty. You've been meaning to pick up some used furniture for the spare bedroom and then it hits you: when were you going to have your last will and testament notarized, anyway?

Submitted for your approval: Yogi's Pizza.

A truly hard-to-miss establishment at the corner of North and Washington Streets near downtown, Yogi's has been catering to Kokomoans' diverse needs since 1971. On this sprawling estate of entrepreneurial ambition, the casual wanderer will find storage units for rent, an enviable collection of portable toilets, and, according to the sign out front, a notary public, just in case you need to put the finishing touches on a sworn affidavit while you wait for your deep dish. In the summer months, a smorgasbord of second-hand furniture lines the sidewalk.

With all these side projects, we justifiably wondered, what of the pizza at this living tribute to the Hail Mary approach to free enterprise?

Let's start with the, ahem, dining room. There's some interesting stuff going on in here. A conspicuously 1990s-era computer rests on one of the tables; bags of Christmas decorations and stuffed animals sit in the corner under the television. Stacks of magazines and a retro industrial kitchen instrument make you feel like you're right back in grandma's kitchen. (If your grandma was a cross between an unrepentant hoarder and a Navy cook.)

If the dining room doesn't discourage folks from dining in, then surely the wall of framed newspapers detailing every catastrophic event in Kokomo's history will. From church fires to race riots, nothing says "pass the parm" quite like a municipal tragedy.

That's right: "firebombings."

The bottom line? The weird-adverse might plan on eating Yogi's pizza at home. There's even a drive-up window so that you can gawk from the safety of your own car.

We ordered a 16" veggie. One of Yogi's endless promotions is that you can choose between receiving two bucks off or two free Cokes. The idea, we suppose, is that if you choose poorly you have no one to blame but yourself. (We chose the discount and this pizza was still $20.)

"You have chosen . . . toppings."

As strange as Yogi's interior is, what really threw us was how much this pizza tasted like many of the other pies we've been eating around town. At first we were apprehensive. Could it be that we have traveled through some sort of culinary wormhole whereby we have now tasted every individual flavor-gradation Kokomo pizza has to offer? Will every pizza we eat from now on taste exactly like a copy of a copy of some eternal Form we've already tried? Have we already tasted the Platonic pizza and found it wanting? 

The cheese, crust, and sauce taste like pretty much every other pizza we've had in Kokomo. The crust was thin, but bready in a confusing, inconsistent way. The sauce was so peppery that it burned Ashley's delicate Midwestern palate. (Ed.: Yes, but then again, so does Heinz ketchup.) We do have to hand it to Yogi's when it comes to their toppings: as the photo suggests, they do pile on the toppings. 

Honestly, we had a hard time writing this review in part because it's hardest to say what must now be said: this is a pretty ordinary pizza. For half the price, sure. But for 20 bucks? And that's after surrendering our God-given right to two free Cokes?  

So, Yogi's pizza was kind of a disappointment. The Yogi's experience, though? Probably something every Kokomoan should try once. 

Gabe's Pizza, Incorporated

The lifeblood of a pizza joint--perhaps more than any other type or "genre" of restaurant--is its loyal customer base. Most Americans will eat a hamburger from any old sports bar. They'll unflinchingly order their lunch combination from "La Familia" or "La Fiesta," so long as the free chips and salsa are coming fast and furiously. 

But most of us have one pizza joint. It's the place we call on Christmas Eve. The pizza that gets us through yet another Bengals playoff loss. The pizza you pick up to celebrate your new job. The pizza for when you've just lost your job. 

Sifting through a handful of online reviews it quickly becomes apparent that for a lot of folks in Kokomo, that pizza joint is Gabe's.

In another reality, Gabe's might have been our pizza joint. Way back in 2012, we very nearly moved into Park Place Apartments, a mere 2 blocks from the overly-officious sounding Gabe's Pizza, Incorporated. We lucked up with a rental house at the last minute, and we had yet to visit this sweet little pizzeria until a very cold, blustery day last week. 

Gabe's is located on West Boulevard (there's also a location on Center Road and one in Sharpsville), in the Jackson Square shopping center, between a tanning salon and a cafe that that the internet tells us also sells used furniture.

Founded in 1969 by Eugene Gabriel, Gabe's has been run by one member of the Gabriel family or another over the last 40-some years. The interior of the Boulevard store is sparse, save for a covered-up mural of "Mr. Gabe" and some framed newspaper clippings that detail Tony Gabriel's illustrious racquetball career. Three-time state champion!

Something to know: there is no "medium" at Gabe's, only small and large. The small is 10", the large is 14". Gabe's offers a "Chicago Style" crust that can only be ordered in the 14" size. (More on the need for quotations later.) 

We ordered a small thin crust with olives, onions, and mushrooms, and a large Chicago-Style cheese. Ashley picked up the pizza and was seriously impressed by the good service. They were apologetic about a five-minute wait, and one of the employees--without any prompting--helped carry the pizza to her car. (The only downside of bagged pizza? You can't stack 'em.)

Side-note: these bags kept the pizza pretty dang warm during a 10-minute ride home in 16-year-old car on a zero-degree night. And for rabid recyclers who lack curbside pick-up, less cardboard is a good thing. 

We'll start with the bad news. Unsurprisingly, the Chicago-Style pie resembles nothing that has ever come from the Windy City. Basically, Chicago-Style means that your crust will be a few millimeters thicker than the tried-and-true thin crust. And alas, both of these crusts come straight from the walk-in cooler. 

But all is not lost. Gabe's pizza has the best sauce that we've tried so far (or so says Ash). It's hard to put our finger on just what makes this stuff special, but it's got a texture and a seasoning that's oddly reminiscent of pizza-at-home kits. The toppings are jam-up, too; especially the onions. After much consideration, we're pretty sure they are dehydrated onions, like the ones you find in a Lipton's soup mix. This innovation is both brilliant and wildly delicious. The cheese is gooey and plentiful (of course); it was layered so heavily on the Chicago-Style that eating it seemed as decadent as one of those cheeseburgers that has donuts for buns. 

This pizza is as reasonable as it is beloved. These two pizzas lasted us through 3 solid days of leftovers and cost us less than 20 dollars. 

Good value, stellar service, and incredible onions. Some aspects of Gabe's could be improved, but they're doing the important things right. So, Gabe's might not be our pizza joint, but we can definitely understand why for some people, it is.