Tacoma and a Happy Ending: PIZZA

Saturday morning we summoned our rental car and headed up north to Tacoma to visit some of DH’s family there. On our way out of town, we hit up St. Honore Bakery for a pastry and a cup of coffee. I found my almond croissant to be fully adequate, yet not nearly as moist and delicious as the still-warm specimen I had at Pearl Bakery during the walking tour the day before.

Ne’ertheless, we enjoyed our trip up I-5, within squinting distance of Mt. Rainier. DH’s uncle took us on a tour of Tacoma, a charming city south of Seattle at the southern end of Puget Sound. I know it sounds corny, but I found it exciting to see a ship loaded up with containers on its way north and into the Pacific. I don’t go coastal much.

After good times, good stories, and lots of visiting, we headed back south in search of dinner. Nah, not searching. We knew exactly where we were going.

Apizza Scholls
4741 SE Hawthorne
Portland, OR 97215

Though it was Saturday night and we had heard tales of insane waits on weekends, we found parking a few blocks away and decided to go for it. We did not really know what to expect—Is it a nice place to sit down and eat? Can you grab a beer while you wait? The restaurant itself is really two spaces with two entrances on the street—it is not possible to cross from one to the other without going outside. Only one side has a public restroom. In spite of these quirks, A Pizza Scholls does not compare to any pizza restaurant we have eaten at in our travels.

Upon entering the right-hand side, we wrote our name at the end of a depressingly long list and asked for a beer for me and DH. We waited, content to people watch and think about our order. About an hour and fifteen minutes later, it was our turn. We accepted seats at the bar in the other dining room, which turned out to be the PERFECT spot for me. I could see clearly the pizzaiolo turning out the pies with hypnotic rhythm. I felt myself falling in love. We ordered a pie with sausage and goathorn peppers. When it finally arrived, we were awe-struck with its magnificence. Neither of us said much as we ate, not even to note the perfect chewy-crisp crust, the tangy sauce, and the overall balance of ingredients (sausage in every bite!). We consumed all of it, and we understood why we saw every table of four ordering two pies. It’s that damn good.

And I wasn't about to take time for a photo-op. That's what web sites are for. Brian (the bearded guy with glasses) was the man throwing the dough when I was watching, and if you scroll down, you can see what the sausage pizza looks like.

Somehow, unlike when we get pizza in Nashville, we were satisfied but not overly stuffed after the meal. We walked back to our car in a dreamlike state, stopped off at a Whole Foods on the way home (really, about the only kind of grocery store I saw there—there are three in Portland!) to get some pre-race fuel for the next day. Besides the pizza, I mean.

Next up: I freeze my butt off, then run my legs off, and DH does the same.