In the true spirit of great culinary adventurers of the twentieth century, my teammate Matt Greene and I delve into the crustiest, cheesiest corners of Spokane's pizzerian underworld.
Our goal is simple: Discover the very worst pizza in Spokane. Let me add that by worst I also mean the best.
And let quickly qualify what I mean by "the worst:" I honestly say worst in a loving way, with a lot of pride, and no small amount of tenderness. Matt and I agree, and you, dear reader, might as well, that there is just something undeniably heartwarming and eternally wonderful about really shitty pizza. How can you deny it? It's just one of those things we don't talk about, I mean, as a country. Kind of like death, or men's pajamas.
So, we begin by braving the Rocky Rococo's, purveyors of greasy Chicago deep-dish pizza.
Located in the heart of downtown, Rocky's is "A Spokane favorite since 1986," at least according to the sandwich sign. And their claim must have some merits if it's been there since 1986.
For years I assumed Rocky's was a local affair, and I'd wondered how in hell it had survived all these years in a city with notorious restaurant turnover. Independent research done by my research partner uncovered the ugly truth: it's a chain.
Appropriately enough for a deep-dish venture, Rocky's is based out of the midwest: "Wisconsin, Illinois, Minnesota, and Washington." Wait, and Washington? They don't mean Seattle, either. Spokane is the only other city outside the midewest to host a Rocky's. Odd. Or is it? In a city I've long referred to affectionately as the "midwest of the west," a heartland chain Rocky Rococo's seems wholly appropriate in Spokane. (Still, I am curious as to how they ended up here.)
Recently the building's facade underwent a major modernization after the adjacent restaurant was demolished (the beloved Cyrus O'Leary's, RIP. And it really deserves an tribute unto itself). It looks like it should have a fancy gastropub or high end sushi bar, but peek inside and you will be shocked as I to see the guts of the establishement totally untouched. In fact, stepping inside, we feel as if we've entered some kind of pizzaria time-warp.
When we first walk in we are greeted with a dim-lit scene that is... how else to say it ... grotto-esque. It's part Chuck E. Cheese, part counter-order lunch deli, and the rest a shadowy reproduction of Pizza Due, Chicago's most famous subteranean deep-dish joint.
To the left is a wall-length photo mural of that cliff-side villa in Italy, the place on the cover of Jess Walter's Beautiful Ruins; in the photo tourists are everywhere, milling about in speedos. Staring out to sea it seems like they are gawking at us. Gawking at us gawking at them. I turn and am startled by a lifesize cardboard cutout of Mr. Rococo himself, seeming to mingle among us commoners at the entrance. He is in a grey suit and wears a huge grin, a thick mustache and dark, circular sunglasses that make him look like a hitman in welding goggles, the kind of guy you don't want to piss off (or write a disparaging expose about. Rocky, if you read this, I love your pizza, I really do).
When we reached the front of the line, I remember with horror that I have recently converted to vegetarianism, and I have a sudden urge to call the whole thing off. I take a deep breath and scan the menu.
I hunt for a table and beeline for the raised seating area. The dais holds maybe six booths and is shaded with a wood arbor and fake ivy. I am encouraged by a container of sauce on the floor it's lumpy contents spilling out on the maroon tile.
I am further invigorated by the complete lack of any salad at the salad bar. As the minutes tick by the whole place is somewhat terrifying on a gut level. It's like something out of the more epicurian leanings of David Lynch, (who, oddly, spent his formative years in Spokane). I start getting concerned about Matt when he arrives carting his box of whatever the meat special was, and I hop up to scavenge whats left of the salad bar sans lettuce. He immediately loads his bowl full of entirely mini corn cobs and bacon bits, and I admit this actually looks quite amazing.
We sit back down and unbox the main course. The slices fit snug in their cozy cocoons, as if they had been nesting there since spring. I lifted mine to check for hatchlings, but only found a puddle of cold grease. We dig in.
"Tangy," Matt says, "soggy and satisfying."
"It's quite limp," I add. "Limp as an old birthday balloon."
The texture recalls an old kitchen sponge, what I imagine a peat bog to be like.
The off white peat-bog/sponge is lined in a thin shell of translucent cheese - what I surmise is probably not Wisconsin's finest. There is also an antique tomato slice or two, and a scattering of shriveled, somewhat humiliated olives. We chew slowly. As we chew we ponder, cow-like. As my eyes adjust I notice odd shapes emerging from the shadows. A huge wood canoe over the entrance, and on the lofty walls behind us huge wood silhouettes of dancing couples in western garb, each outlined in vivid stripes. Above the salad bar hangs a paper mache taradactyl wearing a Santa hat.
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| Found poetry? We think yes. |
"I think you mean what was this place."
Somehow Matt has learned we are sitting in what was, pre-1986, a theater.
"That explains a lot."
As enough pieces of this mystery come together that I am momentarily relieved.
Then as we get up to make our exit we notice a wooden booth, what looks like a glass walled confessional. A sign above the entrance says "kids booth," and inside is an actual kid, seated all alone at his own table. "Hello," I say, in my best kid-voice. He looks up at me and sticks his tongue out, showing off the mashed up glory of his lunch. "I see," say I. I take a quick glance around. The mother or father nowhere in sight, I flick an olive which lands in his hair, and then I turn and dash out the door. Matt is waiting to refill his third cup of sweet tea.
"What?" Matt says. "It's free refills!"
The takeaway:
Matt: There is a refreshing vintage authenticity about Rocky's. I don't think the menu board has been updated since the 80's. As a bonus, it seems they have the original staff still employed as well.
Nick: I think they must live there. We should check out the kitchen, I bet they have cots in the back room. They sleep in deep dish pizza boxes. Really the place is like a time warp. It is refreshing to see a place that doesn't give a damn, and just keeps doing what they've done since day one. And people keep coming.
Matt: Everyone did seem quite happy there.
Some parting words from Rocky himself:
"If you got a problem, an issue, a question,
Mr.Rococo will have a suggestion.
Ya' see, along with being the Master of the Slice, Rocky
got a degree in GGA, (dat's Given Good Advice),
Yeah, Presidents and Kings ask everyday,
They stand in line just to hear, What Da' Rock has to say,
Hey ask about your love life, or why does ice freeze?
Just don't ask about his secret recipes."
