Zur deutschen Fassung dieser Geschichte.
I called the pizza place to order a Big American pizza.
Deviating from the usual procedure, the woman from the pizzeria did not accept the order with joy. Instead, she became rather serious:
“Well, about the Big American, I have to tell you something.”
“It’s not really a creation of ours. We kept it on the menu after buying the business last year, because some of our customers like it.”
Yeah, I’d like to try it too, I thought.
But the woman warned me: “This pizza has everything on it, so many ingredients. All together in one pizza!”
I knew that. I had checked the menu and had made the decision based on a very hungry stomach.
While I was still thinking about what she was getting at, it became clear: “If you like, I can prepare a Big American pizza for you. It’s your decision. But I don’t think you are going to like it that much.”
I had never gotten the impression that she knew me that well, because we had only met a few times when I’d picked up previous pizzas, ordered, by the way, without any problems. I always pick up food myself, because I find this whole delivery business a bit presumptuous and upper-class. There is hardly a more visible degradation of a human being to a pure workhorse than to let someone else drive food around in a snowstorm, to open the door impatiently, to allow a short glimpse into the warm and cozy home, and to send the guy back out into the human and meteorological cold immediately after taking the warm cardboard box from him. Moreover, here on Faial, I live on a very steep path that I wouldn’t want any delivery guy on a bicycle to have to tackle, especially as he, should he miss the little house that I am currently occupying, would be heading straight for a dangerous volcano. I don’t deem my time to be more valuable than the time of another human being, and that is why nobody else should be sweating on their bike, just to save myself half an hour of walking. Besides, I don’t like waiting at home, not being able to go to the bathroom fully relaxed.
“As I said, it’s your decision,” the pizza baker interrupted my sociocritical train of thought.
I ordered a bacon pizza instead, picked it up, took it to a field, leaned against a bale of hay and ate it with delightful pleasure, looking at the sea and the bacon-providing cows.
The pizza place had probably just run out of corn.