I grew up nowhere near an important pizza city, not New York, Detroit, New Haven, nor Chicago. I spent my grade school years in Toronto, where my pizza education took place through a restaurant called Pizza Hut. Maybe you've heard of it?
I can’t think of a more perfectly constructed food for a 7-year-old.
Pizza by itself is already ideal for young kids: tomato sauce, salty pepperoni, melty cheese—nothing disagreeable there. Where Pizza Hut diverges from the competition is its crust. There are shades of Roman and Detroit styles in Pizza Hut’s pan pizza—crunchy, golden, vaguely buttery. It’s ostensibly pizza atop fried bread.
Years later my pizza horizons would widen (pretty hard to beat Neapolitan). But Pizza Hut remains an indelible taste memory of my childhood. And now, my 5-year-old’s childhood, too.