Delivery, No

All my Brooklyn friends, who thankfully are probably not reading this, would be aghast. They might disown me. They’d certainly lecture me, berate me, and squench their faces up in disgust at me. I ordered Domino’s Pizza last night.

Let me explain. Portland may be many things – environmentally progressive, exceptionally beautiful in the summer and fall – but it is not a delivery town. I mean that. No one delivers.

I’ve heard a number of New Yorkers ask in dismay how the rest of America could have supported the rise of a place such as Domino’s and, friends, I have your answer. In places where no one else will bring you food on those evenings when it’s too cold or you’re too exhausted or lazy or waiting for a phone call, Domino’s will bring you dinner. And you can understand that, because no one gets more delivery than New Yorkers.

Seriously, though, I have yet to find any delivery options in Portland other than Domino’s, and so I had it, and I’m not sorry. Or rather, I wasn’t sorry at first because I don’t mind Domino’s. I’m not such a pizza connoisseur as some, I admit. But then I did mind it afterward, and that’s the reason I almost never ever order Domino’s. I ate way too much. Not because it’s the most amazing thing ever. Just because I can’t seem to stop. I sometimes wonder if Domino’s sneaks in some sort of stomach-expanding chemical that allows you to feel still-hungry until you finally go, There’s no way my stomach holds this much food, and then you stop and feel sick.