When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie, That's New York, eh?

It happens quietly. A subtle, often untraceable shift takes place. Slowly, but surely, a once occasional foray becomes a full-blown habit.

What is it that breeds such an unconscious, deep seeded attachment? Pizza. And the zombie-like slide towards elevated levels of consumption that I speak of can only mean one thing, you are a New Yorker.

Pizza—not to be confused with “pizazz,” an equally enthusiastic and, not coincidentally, similar word. As a child, pizza held an almost holy place in my young life, personifying all that was festive, celebratory and over indulgent, essentially defining fun itself. Birthday parties, Saturday nights when baby sitters were in charge (supposedly), sporting events, slumber parties, congratulatory meals where the main event was whatever you wanted; it wasn’t pizza night every night, but when it was, hold the phone. Ordering pizza signified you were going all out, letting go and giving permission for the rockin’ waves of excitement to come rushing in.

You were heading straight into the coma-inducing black hole of supreme pizza and Coca-Cola, and it was okay with your mom.

Yes, in those days pizza was god and in the sea of Domino’s and Pizza Huts that made up the proverbial pizza landscape for large swaths of America, no one personified that more so than the man himself, Little Caesar. With his trademark, “Pizza. Pizza,” refrain and his paper covered, rectangular cardboard packaging (mind blowing), the lovable Little Caesar jumped out of the television screen and into our hearts. But while some of us were swimming in Crazy Bread and loving every minute of it, society began to take a cruel turn. Suddenly, adolescence turned into young adulthood and the once popular pizza-pie-palooza birthday parties were replaced by 6-foot party subs, taco bars and worse, all dessert menus.

By my teen years (a.k.a. the delightful mid-1990s), the pizza industry itself had shifted. The designer pizza craze swept the country and chains like California Pizza Kitchen roared into popularity with their nouveau, “fresh cool” vibe and quirky West Coast flavor combinations that kept you distracted just long enough to think their product was healthier. At home my mom began pushing the “make your own” pizza trend, another dark chapter for the pizza establishment. Soon my beloved, piping hot pies were taking on the form of over-stuffed Boboli ready crusts with a panoply of toppings that no doubt had their roots in a misguided CPK visit (“Honey, asparagus is great on pizza!”). Life was imploding.

Fast forward. The sun shined on me and I moved to New York City, land of pizza and dreams. I say fast forward because we needn’t waste time getting into the dark years when too much late night pizza was nobody’s friend. Yes, people, it was here, here in the Empire State that the first hint of that untraceable shift began to happen. Soon, pizza-as-diet-staple had me in its clutches. Me and everyone else in town.

As a vast array of New York stereotypes underscore, New Yorkers eat a lot of pizza (fuhgeddaboudit). In my ridiculously astute opinion that stems from two main factors: one, there is great pizza in NYC; and two, pizza is the ultimate convenience food. Am I blowing your mind yet or what?

A recent study by the USDA concluded that 1 in 8 Americans eats pizza every day (true to form, Eater greeted the news with the earth-shattering headline, “USDA Scientifically Concludes Americans Eat Lots of Pizza.”). 1 in 8? I can’t speak for the rest of America, but I know that number is significantly higher for New Yorkers. Here, pizza places dot the avenues more than mailboxes, fire hydrants, froyo outposts, fruit stands, guys hocking tube socks and fedoras, and even liquor stores — which is saying something. A slice of pizza in NYC is akin to a piece of Kleenex, a bottle of water, a Metrocard, a discarded newspaper; its presence and use is so ubiquitous, the evidence is everywhere. Although unlike a waded up Kleenex, I don’t typically find pizza crust in my bag.

So how much higher is the rate of pizza consumption in NYC? “I see the same people in here everyday at lunchtime. Every single day they come in,” a staff member at Famous Ray’s Pizza in Chelsea told me. That’s five days a week, one meal a day. Assuming those customers generally eat at a frequency of three times per day, that means almost a quarter of their weekly meals are pizza. Other New Yorkers told me that a slice of pizza makes up closer to a third of their weekly diet. Manhattan resident, Kelly Russell commented, “I eat pizza probably six times a week. It’s just like, right there.” Indeed it is. “And because, I like pizza.”

A truer statement was never uttered.

We eat pizza because we like pizza. And we eat pizza because in the city, you constantly find yourself hungry (thirsty, tired, needing to go the bathroom…) and on the go, and what else stifles hunger for $2.75* better than a slice of pie? We don’t see it as unhealthy and why should we? The USDA study points out that 30% of our daily calcium and 50% of our lycopene can come from pizza — that’s like inhaling an entire crate of heirloom tomatoes right in the middle of the farmer’s market while Dr. OZ watches. We don’t see pizza as a festive-occasion-only food, we see it as necessary, hearty, affordable and accessible in ways nothing else really is. That $8.00 sandwich? I’ll have a slice instead. That $7.50 burger? I’ll still go for the slice. What about an $12.00 salad? Please. Who has $12.00?

For New Yorkers pizza is fuel. And we will fill our bodies with whatever fuel we need to get us from point A to point B. If that fuel also happens to be a wonder of cheesy tomato perfection, hey, that’s the beauty of NYC. Between the amazing local pizzerias and the high levels of availability, pizza makes its way into your life, replacing more snacks than you ever realized and becoming firmly ensconced in your existence.

And sure, we all have our favorite place, the place with the best slice, but let’s get real, in a pinch I’ll eat a $1 slice and keep on moving.

Like millions of New Yorkers, I love pizza and will grab a slice anytime the hunger pains strike, often making it part of my diet by bookending it with a green juice and a non-GMO flax granola bar. I’m nothing if not practical.

But that’s pizza in NYC, practical. Which is why it’s the number one food for New Yorkers (according to ridiculousinthecity.com) and the number one food in my ridiculous heart.

Pizza. Pizza.

*current price of a plain cheese slice at Joe’s Pizza on Carmine Street. Ridiculous in the City keeps it real.