Why I'm awake tonight: Why is the Greek food in Chicago so different from the Greek food in Los Angeles?

And what is the emotional upset about pizza? I get so tired of hearing my out-of-state friends go on about pizza.

"Oh, yeah, Missy? Well you haven't tasted pizza until you've been to (Chicago or NY, depending on where they are from.)

One friend of mine from New Jersey (who was excited on his first visit to LA, by the way, when we were at Taco Bell and a guy named Juan made his burrito) would not stop talking about how superior the pizza is in New York. And what can I say? I've never been to New York, we're not on our way to New York, I don't give a shit and I just want him to shut up. Personally, I like the woodfired stuff at Avanti's in Pasadena but apparently no one wants to hear about this newfangled West Coast crap.

After living in LA for a while he finally found this place downtown that made pizza "Just like they have it in New York" so he dragged me down there at whatever time of night to try it. He was so excited! Staring at me with his mouth open, his eyebrows up, his hands poised in midair as if they are waiting to grab my response as it comes out of my mouth. I took a bite. Whatever. It's a kind of bland and flat, and too moist. Too much cheese.

There is nothing I can say. If I like it we'll have to discuss how much I like it. If I don't like it he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to convince me that I'm wrong. It's fine though, I'm not knocking it, but I sure don't share my friend's enthusiasm.

I nod. "It's good," I say, trying to chew without making the moist ball of dough touch my tongue. Too late, the slimey crust made contact with the inside of my mouth and I gag a little bit. "Ooo, trying to chew too much at once there. Yeah, that was really good."

"Don't you just want to eat here every day?" he asks, digging in.

"I don't know, man, that's kind of a long drive just for pizza," I say.

Wrong answer, just so you know.

Not long after that, another NJ friend ordered me a pizza from Joe Peeps, so I could see what real pizza is like. It was alright. A beam of light didn't shine down from heaven or anything, but it tasted good with lots of Louisiana Hot Sauce.

Later, I met Dearinger, a die-hard Chicagoan. After hearing her go on about Chicago pizza for a couple of years we were finally able to complete this endurance test when I accompanied her to Chicago. We took a taxi to a place called, I forget what it's called, I'm wanting to say Porquoi or Pernod but that wasn't it. Anyway, Amy gave us the name over the phone so I thought we were going out for French and I dressed up. Beer, people screaming at the many TVs, me in a $300 jacket. Got it? Okay.

The pizza was kind of soupy, lots of stuff in it. Sort of like an Italian stew served over bread, fat soaked into the crust. It was okay. On my more recent trip to Chicago I was able to try the deep dish pizza at a variety of restaurants, just to make sure I hadn't gotten ahold of a bad one, or maybe I had too much tequila before. No.

I told one of my Chicago friends, a transplant, that I had pizza for dinner.

"Oh yeah? What place?" he asks immediately. Oh no, has he caught pizza fever already?

"Uh, I don't know, some place that starts with a P," I answer.

"Could it be 'Pizzeria'?" he asks.

"No, I'm not that stupid," I answer. I check the sign later. Pizzeria Oro.

What is it about the freaking pizza that makes people come to LA and drone on about how much better it is at home? Does this have something to do with homesicknesses and yearning for the familiar greasy teat they grew up on? I've never tried to push pizza on anyone, although I'm from Oregon and we're not really known for our pizza. The next time I'm in Chicago if I order chicken and cilantro with goatcheese on a wholewheat crust will I be bludgeoned to death?

Does everyone get so charged up over their food, or do I just hang out with a bunch of proselytizing pizza pushers?

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