Finding Comfort in the Worst Pizza You've Ever Had

You know how some people have comfort foods — mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, grilled cheese? Mine’s always been pizza. Any kind. Any time. I’ve had it in fine restaurants, school cafeterias, and gas stations that should’ve been condemned — and I’ve loved every bite.

I eat more convenience store pizza than I probably should admit in public. But here’s the thing — it’s not bad. Some of it’s actually pretty good. We’ve come a long way since the days when “gas station pizza” meant a sad, chewy triangle under a heat lamp. These days, you can grab a slice at a mini-mart that’ll surprise you. Casey’s, for example — they’ve somehow turned “convenience store pizza” into an art form.

But if I’m being honest, it’s hard for me to think of pizza that’s truly bad. In my entire life, I can’t remember ever putting down a slice and saying, “Nope, can’t eat this.” Sure, I’ve had better slices than others, and some I wouldn’t waste money on again. But to have a slice so bad I couldn’t eat it? Hasn’t happened. Even the ones that threaten to crack a crown or taste like they’ve been reheated four times — I still eat them. Because it’s pizza.

When I was younger, I thought my brother was a god. He worked at Shakey’s Pizza — which in the late ’70s and early ’80s might as well have been heaven itself to a kid like me. The smell of yeast and sauce and pepperoni grease clinging to his shirt when he walked through the door was about the best cologne imaginable. He’d drag himself straight to bed after a long shift, but sometimes he’d bring pizza home.

One Saturday morning, I opened the fridge and spotted this strange-looking pizza. The cheese wasn’t golden — it was brown. Leather-brown. I took a knife to it and had to practically saw through, but I was eleven and fearless. It wasn’t bad. I kind of liked it. Later that day, my brother came home, opened the fridge, and yelled, “What the heck did you do?!” Turns out that pizza had sat under the warmer all night because someone never picked it up. He’d brought it home for the dog.

All I could say was, “It tasted good to me.” He just laughed and shook his head. I walked right back over and grabbed another slice.

There’s an old saying about pizza and sex — “When it’s good, it’s really good. When it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.” I think that about sums up my relationship with pizza.

Over the years, my tastes grew up a little. I learned that if you soak anchovies in milk before adding th m to a pizza, it takes the edge off. But the first time I tried them, I went all in — straight out of the can, salty enough to raise my blood pressure thirty points. Still ate it. Because, again — pizza.

Heck, just last night, after a long Sunday night shift, I was running on fumes—literally and otherwise. I pulled into a quiet convenience store, half-asleep and low on both gas and funds. I could only afford a couple gallons to get me through the week, but as I looked toward the food counter, I spotted something else—a single, lonely slice of pepperoni pizza sitting in its little triangular box under the warmer.

Even through the fogged-up window of that case, I could tell it had been sitting there for a while. Didn’t matter. I’ve known plenty of over-warmed pizza in my day, and most of it’s still been good enough. I set it on the counter, and the guy behind the register said, “I can make you a fresh one if you’ve got time. That one’s been in there a while.”

I told him I didn’t—just needed to get home. He nodded, then said, “Well then, I’m only charging you a dollar for it.”

That simple kindness hit me in a way I didn’t expect. I thanked him a few times, he waved it off, and I headed out into the cool night with my $1 slice and two gallons of gas.

Sitting there in the car, I opened the box. The pizza was firm, a little chewy, but it was warm and salty and perfect in its own small way. I took a bite, looked up through the windshield at the stars, and just sat there for a moment—tired, but strangely at peace.

And then came some tumultuous times during the last two years. Times when I’d eat dinner sitting on the tailgate of my truck, parked in front of a convenience store, just me, a diet Coke, and a couple slices of whatever was hot and cheap. There were nights when life felt heavy, confusing, and unfair. But for those few minutes, eating pizza under the buzzing glow of a gas station light, something shifted. I felt… okay. Like the world wasn’t quite as sharp-edged for a moment.

Maybe that’s the thing about pizza. It’s steady. Reliable. It doesn’t ask for much — just a few bucks and a few minutes. It’s there when you’re celebrating, and it’s there when you’re trying to hold it together. From Shakey’s boxes in the fridge to late-night 7-Eleven slices, it’s followed me through every chapter.

So yeah, I’ve had pizza that was too salty, too cold, too burnt, or technically meant for the dog. But I’ve never had pizza I didn’t finish. Because when it’s good, it’s amazing — and when it’s bad, it’s still pizza.

And sometimes, that’s enough

Thanks for reading this one, friends. If you’ve ever found comfort in a late-night slice or a leftover square from the back of the fridge, you know exactly what I mean. Here’s to the world’s most forgiving food — and the memories that come with every bite. 🍕