Due to the configuration of dogs on the crust, picking up a slice with them intact feels horrifyingly reminiscent of taking the hand of the elderly or infirm. Limp, dead weight that strikes your fingers in a way that makes them instinctively want to interdigitate. It’s as though the pizza itself is meeting your grasp and pulling you closer, down into the cheesy, meaty depths of carbohydrated ether.
The first bite, taken traditionally from the food triangle’s point, is pure pizza bliss. True, there is good pizza and there is bad pizza, but the best pizza is almost always the pizza that you have in your hands. A second bite invariably finds curiosity winning out to form and function, and the slice is reversed so that a hot dog nub can be bitten free. The result is bready, salty, meaty, smoky, and, as wonderful as all those elements should be when performed in harmony, ultimately disappointing.