Eddie.

Sonder:
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

Eddie Munster. The most vivid memory of San Francisco. I often define my travels by the food I eat. The ethos of the foodie. In this scenario, Tonys Pizza Napoletana  on Stockton Street has secured it’s spot as my greatest travelling achievement.  An average size establishment reminiscent of a trendy east coast pub, (seedier if it were in less capable hands) with a bar in one room and booths lining the walls in another, Tonys has the air of a favorite locals-only spot for those in-the-know. The smell of pizza hangs in the air outside as you crowd your way in. Inside, a whirlwind of sounds and smells and people until the cacophony suddenly dims upon reaching the refuge of your booth.

I enjoy pizza well enough. I used to live on the Little Caesar’s variety in my early twenties.  I’m not a person of discriminating tastes by any means. Over the years my palate has become accustomed to the nuances of flavors and textures.  By de facto, the epicurean frou-frou "daring" foods now speak a language I’m fluent in. However, you will never convince me street food isn't the best down-and-dirty food on the planet. That honor belongs to my first: a churro cart in Tijuana.  Point is, I like all kinds of food, doesn't matter if it’s from a kitchen, a dive, or Spain.

That brings me back to Eddie. I believe food transcends nutrition and becomes culture and experience. My obsession with food and anthropology has lead me to believe our food traditions are one of the common languages all of humanity shares. It has only been recently the tradition of breaking bread together has become a novelty instead of the norm. On Stockton Street, seated with a superstitiously fateful perfect combination of eating companions, an experience was unfolding around me in every booth. People were gathering to experience the same thing, the gathering of friends to share a meal that would both entice and delight the taste buds. This wasn't another pizza place, this was a place where total strangers gathered to delight their senses. And Eddie. From skepticism to sheer joy! My taste buds felt instantly as though they had been caught up in the Rapture and were ascending to Nirvana. Layers of flavor and texture! This wasn’t pizza! This was art my tongue could appreciate! An edible version of Picasso's Three Musicians. I confess, it was almost emotional. First, the fried kale of which there are no earthly words to describe the crunch as the saltiness disintegrates on your tongue, followed by the sweet taste of honey and lemon. A symphony wherein each movement builds upon the last; the bacon, Munster and peppers joining in one last grand finale of flourish….and when the taste is about to pass- a subtle finish of satisfaction a tongue cannot speak but waters at the thought of.

All around me in the other booths exclamations of taste buds reveling in delight met my ears. In that moment I bonded with a hundred other hungry guests over pizza. Food transcends boundaries and unifies in the partaking of it, a shared human experience; for this simple soul, one not to be forgotten in reminiscences. For the booth by the kitchen at Tonys will always be when Sonder beat in time with all who ate within.

It’s safe to say, it is the best pizza I’ve ever had. Sorry New York.