serial fiction

Delroy and the Cheese — Part Twelve

The trio continue their search for cheese — pizza proves promising

This is the twelfth chapter of an 18 chapter series about life in a Canadian tree-planting camp. If you’re new, you may want to start at the beginning or go to the complete list of Delroy and the Cheese chapters.

At the motel, the three of us got one room with two double beds. Aside from the beds, the room had a mini-fridge, an electric kettle, and a small round table with two chairs. It was on the second floor and overlooked a gravel parking lot. It felt like paradise.

Along with the parmesan, the girls had picked up some snacks and a six-pack of beer. We grabbed a beer each and put the rest in the fridge. Susan sat on the floor with her back against one of the beds. Andrea and I sat at the table.

“This carpet is awesome!” said Susan. “It’s so soft and clean and dry!” She leaned over and stroked it in a wide arc with the hand not holding the beer.

“It looks kind of manky to me,” I said.

“No. It’s lovely,” said Susan. She continued to stroke it. “What are the chairs like?”

“Comfy,” said Andrea. “Sturdy. I love that I can lean back in them.”

“Let’s switch!”

Andrea and Susan switched places. Andrea was now on the floor with her back against the bed. Susan rocked back and forth in the chair.

“Okay. Manky or not, now I have to try it,” I said and scrambled down to sit beside Andrea on the floor. We turned towards each other and clinked our beer bottles. “Floor buddies.”

“So now what?” I asked, keenly aware that my shoulder was touching Andrea’s.

“Maybe there’s an Italian deli that we don’t know about,” said Susan.

I wasn’t optimistic. “It’s possible, I guess. We could have a look. The town’s not that big. We could ask around and walk all the shopping streets.”

“What about restaurants?” Suggested Andrea. “There’s at least a couple of pizza places. And Dan’s pub.”

“And the A & W,” said Susan.

“I don’t think A&W will have pecorino,” I said.

“Why not? They have Mozza Burgers. That’s an Italian cheese, right?”

“Different kind of cheese.”

“I think I’ll check it out anyway,” said Susan. “Even if it’s not the right cheese, I love Mozza burgers.”

We split up. Susan headed East to check out places along the main drag. Andrea headed back to the grocery store. Her plan was to ask if they knew if there were any delis or anywhere else that might sell cheese. I headed West where I knew there were at least two pizza places. We gave ourselves three hours, planning to regroup at Dan’s pub at the edge of town.

I went to the Boston Pizza first. The manager was polite but unhelpful. He had heard of pecorino but it definitely wasn’t an ingredient in any of his pizzas.

I had a more productive but challenging experience at Mario’s Pizza. Mario’s was a humble affair that occupied a converted double-wide trailer of the type used in logging camps all across the North of Canada. There were a few small tables inside and a couple more outside surrounded by a mix of plastic lawn chairs.

The view wasn’t much. There was an empty lot across the road with a couple of old tires dumped in it and a lot of weeds. I got the impression most of their business was takeaway, but that afternoon the sun was out and there were a couple of old guys sitting at one of the outside tables having a beer and sharing some garlic bread. They were both about seventy. One guy was skinny and had a mustache. The other was a bit rounder and clean-shaven. They both wore glasses and trucker caps.

The guy behind the counter was on the phone so I grabbed a menu and went back out to sit at one of the plastic tables next to the old guys. I couldn’t see anything that mentioned pecorino explicitly but they did have a Quattro Formaggi pizza. That sounded promising. After all, it means “four cheeses.” I went back inside and asked what the cheeses were.

“No idea,” said the guy behind the counter.

This surprised me.

“Well, how do you make it then? Don’t you need to know what cheeses to put on the pizza?”

He gestured at a number of big Tupperware containers behind the counter.

“I put some of each of these on it. There’s white cheese, streaky cheese, hard cheese, and a creamy one. I don’t know the names.”

“Can I have a sample?” I asked.

“Of what? The pizza?”

“No. Of the cheeses.”

“No, you can’t have a sample. I need them to make the pizza.”

“Come on,” I said. “I just want a closer look.”

“So buy a pizza. You’ll be able to examine all four cheeses to your heart’s content.”

I could tell he wasn’t going to budge.

“Okay, fine then. Can I have a quattro formaggi pizza? But don’t put it in the oven. I want it uncooked so I can examine the cheese.”

He stepped back from the counter and crossed his arms. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Health regulations.”

“Heath regulations? Isn’t pizza pretty much just bread and cheese? People normally eat both of those things raw all the time. Come on!”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it.”

“I’ll give you an extra 20 bucks.”

The pizza guy thought about it for a minute. “Okay. Twenty bucks. Deal.” I handed over forty dollars. He put the fifteen bucks the pizza cost in the till, gave me five back, and pocketed the extra twenty. “Don’t tell anyone though. And make sure you cook it properly before you eat it.”

“I promise,” I said, and crossed myself.

He put the pizza together and I was careful to notice which cheese came from which container. Then I back outside and carefully studied my pizza, trying to remember exactly what Delroy’s pecorino looked, smelled, and tasted like. None of them looked quite right. I picked up a piece of cheese and carefully examined it.

The old guys were intrigued. I felt some kind of explanation was needed.

“I’m trying to figure out what kind of cheese this is,” I told them.

“Uh-huh,” said the one without the mustache.

I held up the piece of cheese I was examining. It was white and soft and smelled creamy. “Do you know what this is?” I asked.

“Mozzarella,” said the other guy, the one with the mustache.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

I sniffed it. “It doesn’t smell like mozzarella. At least it doesn’t smell like a Mozza burger.”

“Mozzarella is the standard cheese you put on a pizza,” he said. “It’s mozzarella. Trust me.”

“Well, what about the other ones, then?” I asked. “This is a four-cheese pizza, apparently.”

The mustache guy shrugged.

“No idea.”

“Mario would know,” said the clean-shaven guy. “He owns the place. He’d be able to tell you all about the cheese on your pizza. He’s Italian.”

“Or anything really,” said Moustache Guy. “Mario could talk the leg off of a goat.”

“So the guy inside isn’t Mario?”

“No. That’s Sean. He works for Mario.”

“He doesn’t seem to know that much about cheese.”

The old guys laughed. “I figure there isn’t much that Sean does know about,” said the clean-shaven guy.

“So how can I find Mario?”

“Don’t know. He’s sure to come by here sometime. Sean might know.”

I went back inside. The guy behind the counter, Sean, looked at me suspiciously.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I was hoping to talk to your boss, Mario,” I said. “One of the guys outside told me he might be coming by later.”

“Why do you want to talk to him?” Sean asked. “You’re not going to tell him I sold you an uncooked pizza, are you? You from the health department or something?”

“Not me,” I said. “I promise. In fact, you can cook my pizza now if you want and then he’ll never know.”

Sean shook his head. “I can’t do that, man. I can only cook pizzas that are made here.”

“This one was made here.”

“How do I know that? You might have switched it with another pizza. Or put something on it that contaminates the oven. Or makes it explode.”

“Jesus! You just sold me this pizza not five minutes ago. Surely, you recognize it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “I can’t be sure.”

“Look I don’t really care whether you cook it or not. I was just trying to help you out. Get rid of the evidence, you know. Besides I’m getting kind of hungry now.”

“Fine,” he said. “Five bucks.”

“What?”

“Give me another five bucks and I’ll cook it for you.”

“Seriously? So far I’ve paid you thirty-five bucks for this pizza,” I protested.

“Well, I could make you a fresh one,” he said. “But that would cost you fifteen.”

I capitulated and gave him the five bucks. He put my pizza in the oven.

“So,” I said. “Where can I find Mario?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I don’t expect to see him again today. I’m here until closing. He should be here tomorrow morning though, by 10 am at the latest.”

Next Chapter…

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