Mancino's Pizza and Grinders

A spring, of sorts, has come to north-central Indiana, and with it the barrel-chested, throaty blare of a hundred metal motorcycle pipes. Peeling up and down Washington, sporting tube tops and greasy leather, this springtime ritual isn't so much about tradition as it is about celebrating the inevitability of the new. Like the Chorus in Oedipus Rex, I like to think they serve as a sort of profound, white-trash reminder that the only permanence we can ever really count on is just more change. You can never dip a toe in the same river twice, as Heraclitus had it, since from one nanosecond to the next, it's not the same river. 

The "big thaw" has finally come to Hoosierland, in other words, though recent forecasts put us right back in the 20s in a couple of days. More change. Or "so it goes," as Vonnegut (himself a Hoosier) might write.

So to kick off a brand new season, and to get back into a serious pizza habit after several weeks of ice water and clean living, it seemed the only thing left to do was finally take on Mancino's enormously-decadent 24-inch pie. (Though "2 feet in diameter" sounds much more impressive.)     

"Ukraine is here . . . right?" 
The pizza box as compared to a giveaway map of the world on an enormous granite island.

Continuing a proud, annoying tradition of pizza joints coast to coast, the pics on Mancino's website look nothing at all like the actual pizza that arrives at your doorstep, or in this case, shoved sideways into the dual-cab of a friend's pick-up. To fit this monstrosity through a standard doorway, you have to tilt it up at around 65 degrees, which is tricky when there's at least 9 pounds of mozzarella and cheddar sliding around on top. Here's a pic of the real Mancino:

As with much of the landscape of American quick-service dining these days, this pie is not so much a pizza as an event (remember the short-lived glory of the KFC "Double Down"?), a convenient excuse to toss off more workaday options and eat communally, milling around a kitchen island with other people, the way some evolutionary biologists believe we're more or less programmed to do. 

At around $35, depending on your choice of toppings, Mancino's unnamed "24-incher" is both a great value and good for a reflective chuckle. Teaching a course on the American Dream this semester has provided me numerous opportunities to talk, read, and think with students about the prominent place of size and scope in just about all of our important American narratives and mythologies. From Manifest Destiny to "too big to fail," the idea that's biggest is usually the one that wins.

A sea of veggies, cheese, and goodness. 

I'm still getting used to this regional notion that cheddar is a proper pizza cheese, and while I'm not yet convinced, I think I understand a bit of the yeoman's logic behind it. Cheddar's natural saltiness is part of its underlying appeal. And if there's one constant among 98.3% of Midwestern-pizza styles, it's that you're not likely to find a saltier pizza in any other significant locale in the US. Plus, everyone likes it. Cheddar cheese is a wonderful equalizer, not to mention one of the bedrock ingredients of Midwestern culture. (Just below ranch dressing, of course.)

The spirit of compromise alive and well, we decided to divvy up this sizable conquest into half-veggie/half-pepperoni, and my friend Ethan passed along a useful tidbit for vegetarian pizza lovers everywhere: if they serve 'em, ask for light smattering of diced tomatoes, or you're likely to end up with a pizza that's more water than pie. It works.

The crust is remarkably similar to some of the others in town; Gabe's comes to mind, though so does Ned's, at least in terms of lightness and sodium content. Unlike some local joints, Mancino's doesn't just mail in the pizza sauce, however, and this makes for a slightly above-average pizza experience. Peeling off an abandoned pepperoni, I was treated to the a cheese-and-sauce only slice; it was fantastic, better even than the veggie. Simplicity may be the key with this pie. 

The bottom line is that Mancino's serves up a good, totally serviceable party pizza that can feed a bunch of hungry adults. There's nothing exactly standout or "interesting" about it, beyond its sheer size, but there doesn't really have to be. It's a perfectly fine pizza for chowing down, reflectively or not, and suitable for communal eating or whatever situation you happen to find yourself in. Serve piping hot with good friends, good conversation, and good drinks.

Next Monday: Pizza King, Redux: From a Local's Perspective.