Tony and Ann's

My father has been a bit of a health nut for as long as I can remember. There’s a new term for this in scientific circles: “orthorexia,” which means compulsion to eat only healthy foods. He is also easily swayed by trends, which makes it worse. When I was little, he went on a Weight Watchers kick and during that time, instead of butter, we had to eat their version of margarine, which was chalk white, tasted vaguely of vegetable shortening and cream cheese, and didn’t melt. Instead of bacon, we had to eat something called Sizzle Lean, defatted spam-like strips of some combination of meat and chemicals. Instead of candy, we had dietetic pudding sweetened with saccharine, with an aftertaste that lasted even after you brushed your teeth.

Yet even he made an exception for Tony and Ann’s pizza. This pizza is so hard to describe, but every single person I know from the Greater Lowell, Massachusetts area loved it, even those who were known to be picky eaters. For instance, you could count on one hand the foods my aunt and cousin will eat, but they still love Tony and Ann’s. The place is legendary—whole websites went up in lament when they closed five years ago, and it was even paid tribute in background scenes on the Simpsons. Many people, my family included, bought a bunch of pizzas and froze them, savoring their very last bites of the greasy cheese and sweet sauce.

Part of the problem is that any description I offer of this pizza is going to make it sound disgusting, in the way that people who describe the deliciousness of steamed clams only make others not want to eat them. Language is inadequate, but I will try: The first thing you will see when opening up a box of Tony and Ann’s pizza is a pool of grease on the top. Now, I do not like grease as a rule (I don’t eat fast food, ever) but bear with me. Under the grease is an amorphous mass of cheese with some red spice sprinkled on top. The cheese melts like no other cheese I have seen, and it has a spicy undertone that I just can’t place. The crust is thin and usually soggy. Then the best part: the sauce. I don’t know what is in it, and no one does. It’s really sweet and spicy, and even for those who dislike really sweet sauce (which I normally do) it’s addictive. It may have some kind of sausage in it. I don’t even care. My father, who is a vegetarian and asks forty million questions at restaurants about what is in the food, doesn’t even care and would eat Tony and Ann’s even if he heard a rumor it was made with baby seal blubber.

Tony and Ann’s opened in the 1950s and was just a little square take-out building for years until they put some benches and tables out front for people to eat outside in good weather. We often just ate the pizza in the car, piles of napkins mandatory. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, all of my family, have gone there for generations. I am quite sure my mother ate Tony and Ann’s pizza when she was pregnant with me. When it closed, it was as though a crucial tie to the past had been lost. The whole city mourned. Competitors claimed their pizzas were "just like Tony and Ann's" but nothing could take its place.

And then we found out that it was reopening. Tony has since died, but Ann is still living, and her children are taking over the business. It is opening in a new spot, but most Tony and Ann fans I know would go anywhere, any distance, for this pizza. During my baby shower several weeks ago, my aunt shared a story about actually driving past Ann’s house and almost stopping in to ask about it (I ought to mention here that she is a normal person and not a stalker). Then she went over to the new site of the restaurant and even looked in the dumpster to see signs of activity. Nothing. But on the way home from the shower, she drove by and saw a sign saying “Opening soon.” She called right away.

If it is open in time, Joanne will serve Tony and Ann’s pizza on Thanksgiving instead of turkey. I can see the boxes now, all piled up, and I can smell the cheese and sauce, and I can hear everyone fighting for the first piece. I can’t wait to treat my baby, who can now experience tasting flavors, to this pizza. It’s going to be a great Thanksgiving.