Blondie's

As a Cal freshman, I had eaten countless slices of pizza from Blondie’s on Telegraph. It was a cheap and convenient way to feel full. Plus, with those coupons handed out at the beginning of each new semester, a slice and a soda for $2 was a steal. As I learned how to better navigate the large Berkeley campus and learned about the mini food mecca that was Berkeley and its surrounding cities, my meals at Blondie’s became less frequent and soon were limited to times when after drinking a little bit too much I needed something to settle my stomach and Jack In the Box was in the wrong direction. Those times were rare.

And, in the seven years that I’ve lived up here (this upcoming August marks the beginning of my eighth year), it never occurred to me to grab a slice from the Blondie’s in San Francisco. Of all those times I’ve hopped out of the Powell Street BART station, I never once thought about turning into the Blondie’s on Powell. It just seemed wrong. Blondie’s belonged in Berkeley.

But Greg suggested we have lunch there on Saturday and I wasn’t going to say no. It was his last Saturday in San Francisco before heading down to Orange County for the summer and I didn’t have anything against the Blondie’s on Powell, except that it wasn't in Berkeley. So we walked there from his place and I was sweaty. It was ridiculously warm and the morning overcast skies didn’t forecast heat.

There was a large menu with pictures of food outside Blondie’s door. Apparently, this Blondie’s not only served pizza but gumbo, catfish, black beans and rice, and other food items that would make one wonder whether or not they were in Louisiana and not downtown San Francisco. I wasn’t feeling too adventurous and ordered a slice of pizza with pepperoni, sausage, and bell peppers along with a Coke.

We sprinkled the mandatory cheese and pepper flakes out of plastic containers roped to the counter onto our slices and headed downstairs to the dining area. I had no idea there was a dining area, nonetheless a dining area so large. It was a vast expanse of tables and chairs in a room with bad lighting and motley people. And there were strange figures cut from or out of and attached to the metal railing to the stairs. It looked like some hippie’s weird idea of art. The strange mix of people, the dim lighting, and the vinyl chairs made me feel like I was in the Shakey’s back at home in LA and that I should be eating Mojo potatoes.

But I wasn’t eating Mojo potatoes and fried chicken. I was eating pizza and did what I did to most of the pizza I eat—I took a napkin and dabbed away some of the grease. The pizza was okay. Although the cheese looked as if it had hardened slightly from sitting out, the slice was still warm enough. And even though I knew that there were things other than pepperoni on my slice that was the only thing I could taste.

I remember Blondie’s being better. I remember Natalie’s dad telling about how good the pizza at Blondie’s was when he found out that I had gotten into Berkeley and how I wondered about this mythic pizza place. I remember their slices being so hot that they would often scorch my mouth with boiling sauce. I remember sitting at one of the stools along the counter eating my slice and sipping my soda while reading pages from Rolling Stone that was attached to the wall and waiting for class to start. Maybe if I go back to the Blondie’s on Telegraph, it’ll all be the same.