Pizza Deals Quotes

I stood in the doorway pondering the difference between naked and nude, and the pizza delivery guy probably wondered if I was going to go put on some clothes and pay him.

At a dinner party in north London, I listened to friends bragging about buying Porsches with their bonuses and sending out from their offices for pizzas and clean shirts because they were clinching a deal and could not leave their desks. I wanted to tell them of a place where every family had lost a son or a husband or had a leg blown off, almost every child seen someone die in a rocket attack and where a small boy had told me his dream was to have a brightly coloured ball. But, when I began to talk about Afghanistan, I watched eyes glaze and felt as if I was trying to have a conversation about a movie no one else had seen.

Angeline’s gaze swiveled to Zoe. “Why didn’t you have us pick up something?” “Because that’s not my job!” Zoe lifted her head up high. “We’re here to keep Jill’s cover and make sure she stays off the radar. It’s not my job to feed you guys.” “In which sense?” I asked. I knew perfectly well that was a mean thing to say to her but couldn’t resist. It took her a moment to pick up the double meaning. First she paled; then she turned an angry red. “Neither! I’m not your concierge. Neither is Sydney. I don’t know why she always takes care of that stuff for you. She should only be dealing with things that are essential for your survival. Ordering pizza isn’t one of them.” I faked a yawn and leaned back into the couch. “Maybe she figures if we’re well fed, you two won’t look that appetizing.” Zoe was too horrified to respond, and Eddie shot me a withering look.

Since we're into witches, let's swing by and check out this Isis at Spirit Quest." She slid her eyes right. Well, maybe she'd rag just a little. "You can probably buy a talisman or some herbs," she said solemnly. "You know, to ward off evil." Peabody shifted in her seat. Feeling foolish wasn't nearly as bad as worrying about being cursed. "Don't think I won't." "After we deal with Isis, we can grab a pizza sub -- with plenty of garlic." "Garlic's for vampires." "Oh. We can have Roarke get us a couple of his antique guns. With silver bullets." "Werewolves, Dallas." Amused at both of them now, Peabody rolled her eyes. "A lot of good you're going to do if we have to defend ourselves against witchcraft." "What does it to witches, then?" "I don't know," Peabody admitted. "But I'm damn sure going to find out.

Peanut butter, or turkey?” “Turkey. Soft on the mayo, extra mustard.” Rick lifted an eyebrow at her. “Do I look like a cook?” “You do until Vilseau comes back. Because anything beyond microwave pizza is your territory, sweetheart.” With a grin he began slathering mustard on one of the slices of bread. “Wonderful. So now I have to negotiate a multimillion-dollar deal and cook? Do you want tomatoes?” “Hell, yes, my darlin’.” “Ahem. Innocent bystander trying not to barf over here.” Stoney waved a hand at them from the doorway. “What’s the gig?” “Food first. Do you want Rick to make you a sandwich?” “Hey,” Rick protested.

Pizza Palace?” David asks. It’s just a few doors down. I picture my friends all huddled in a booth in the back. No need to combine David with my real life. “Nah.” “I figured you wouldn’t want to go there. Pizza Pizza Pizza is so much better and has that great two-for-one deal. I just didn’t want to suggest it,” David says. “Why?” “The name. It’s not like they have three times more pizza than other places. Ridiculous.” “How about we not get pizza at all?” “I thought you might say that too, since you had such a hearty, well-balanced lunch.” He pauses. Clears his throat. Stares at the single car making its way down Main Street. “That’s going to be one of those things I said out loud and then will regret later, isn’t it?” I laugh and it feels good. He looks sweet when he realizes he’s said the wrong thing. His eyes go big and wide. To rescue him, I link my arm with his and start us walking down the street. “Just so you know, if asked, I would have no idea how to describe your frequency,” I say. “Honestly, sometimes I think only dogs can hear me,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I can hear you just fine.” “It’s worth a lot,” David says, and I blush, and I’m pretty sure he does too

Sometimes I don’t know how any of us go on. Sometimes I fear there’s no way our species will survive our own self-destructive choices. Sometimes I feel so gut punched by the backward deal of the universe—that if you’re really lucky, you get people in your life to love, and then, over time, they will all either leave you or die—that I am angry at life. Actually, not sometimes. Always. I always feel that way. I don’t always actively think about it, but it’s in there. At the same time, I am always looking for some gratitude, warmth, or hope. I often have to really search for it, but when I see something that makes me feel joy—even just a tiny odd hardly anything—you’re damn right I applaud it. Way to go, adorable cat on a leash! Thank you, server who brought my hot pizza! Kudos, writers of a TV show that made me laugh! Hallelujah, sunshine after a week of storms! Yay for a good hair day, yippee for hot coffee, huzzah for an outfit that puts bounce in my step. If I can scrape up some evidence of a thing made beautifully or a gesture made kindly, then I can believe, for a few seconds, that this world is careful and kind. And if I can believe that, I can believe it is safe to let the people I love walk around out there. It’s my own attempt at foresparkling, seeking out hints of good, even planting them myself, so I can believe there’s more good to come. It might all be superstition, just mental magic, but why not try?

When I was a kid, my mother thought spinach was the healthiest food in the world because it contained so much iron. Getting enough iron was a big deal then because we didn't have 'iron-fortified' bread. Turns out that spinach is an okay source of iron, but no better than pizza, pistachio nuts, cooked lentils, or dried peaches. The spinach-iron myth grew out of a simple mathematical miscalculation: A researcher accidentally moved a decimal point one space, so he thought spinach had 10 times more iron than it did. The press reported it, and I had to eat spinach. Moving the decimal point was an honest mistake--but it's seldom that simple. If it happened today I'd suspect a spinach lobby was behind it. Businesses often twist science to make money. Lawyers do it to win cases. Political activists distort science to fit their agenda, bureaucrats to protect their turf. Reporters keep falling for it. Scientists sometimes go along with it because they like being famous.

Dear Peter K, First of all I refuse to call you Kavinsky. You think you’re so cool, going by your last name all of a sudden. Just so you know, Kavinsky sounds like the name of an old man with a long white beard. Did you know that when you kissed me, I would come to love you? Sometimes I think yes. Definitely yes. You know why? Because you think EVERYONE loves you, Peter. That’s what I hate about you. Because everyone does love you. Including me. I did. Not anymore. Here are all your worst qualities: You burp and you don’t say excuse me. You just assume everyone else will find it charming. And if they don’t, who cares, right? Wrong! You do care. You care a lot about what people think of you. You always take the last piece of pizza. You never ask if anyone else wants it. That’s rude. You’re so good at everything. Too good. You could’ve given other guys a chance to be good, but you never did. You kissed me for no reason. Even though I knew you liked Gen, and you knew you liked Gen, and Gen knew you liked Gen. But you still did it. Just because you could. I really want to know: Why would you do that to me? My first kiss was supposed to be something special. I’ve read about it, what it’s supposed to feel like00fireworks and lightning bolts and the sound of waves crashing in your ears. I didn’t have any of that. Thanks to you it was as unspecial as a kiss could be. The worst part of it is, that stupid nothing kiss is what made me start liking you. I never did before. I never even thought about you before. Gen has always said that you are the best-looking boy in our grade, and I agreed, because sure, you are. But I still didn’t see the allure of you. Plenty of people are good-looking. That doesn’t make them interesting or intriguing or cool. Maybe that’s why you kissed me. To do mind control on me, to make me see you that way. It worked. Your little trick worked. From then on, I saw you. Up close, your face wasn’t so much handsome as beautiful. How many beautiful boys have you ever seen? For me it was just one. You. I think it’s a lot to do with your lashes. You have really long lashes. Unfairly long. Even though you don’t deserve it, fine, I’ll go into all the things I like(d) about you: One time in science, nobody wanted to be partners with Jeffrey Suttleman because he has BO, and you volunteered like it was no big deal. Suddenly everybody thought Jeffrey wasn’t so bad. You’re still in chorus, even though all the other boys take band and orchestra now. You even sing solos. And you dance, and you’re not embarrassed. You were the last boy to get tall. And now you’re the tallest, but it’s like you earned it. Also, when you were short, no one even cared that you were short--the girls still liked you and the boys still picked you first for basketball in gym. After you kissed me, I liked you for the rest of seventh grade and most of eighth. It hasn’t been easy, watching you with Gen, holding hands and making out at the bus stop. You probably make her feel very special. Because that’s your talent, right? You’re good at making people feel special. Do you know what it’s like to like someone so much you can’t stand it and know that they’ll never feel the same way? Probably not. People like you don’t have to suffer through those kinds of things. It was easier after Gen moved and we stopped being friends. At least then I didn’t have to hear about it. And now that the year is almost over, I know for sure that I am also over you. I’m immune to you now, Peter. I’m really proud to say that I’m the only girl in this school who has been immunized to the charms of Peter Kavinsky. All because I had a really bad dose of you in seventh grade and most of eighth. Now I never ever have to worry about catching you again. What a relief! I bet if I did ever kiss you again, I would definitely catch something, and it wouldn’t be love. It would be an STD! Lara Jean Song

As we round the corner for our third lap, I catch Peter Kavinsky looking at me. I thought I was imagining it at first, him staring in my direction, but this is the third time. He’s playing ultimate Frisbee with some of the guys. When we pass them, Peter jogs over to us and says, “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Chris and I look at each other. “Her or me?” she asks. “Lara Jean.” Chris puts her arm around my shoulder protectively. “Go ahead. We’re listening.” Peter rolls his eyes. “I want to talk to her in private.” “Fine,” she snaps, and she flounces away. Over her shoulder she looks back at me with wide eyes, like What? I shrug back, like I have no idea! In a low, quiet voice, Peter says, “Just so you know, I don’t have any STDs.” What in the world? I stare at him, my mouth open. “I never said you had an STD!” His voice is still low but actually furious. “I also don’t always take the last piece of pizza.” “What are you talking about?” “That’s what you said. In your letter. How I’m an egotistical guy who goes around giving girls STDs. Remember?” “What letter? I never wrote you any letter!” Wait. Yes I did. I did write him a letter, about a million years ago. But that’s not the letter he’s talking about. It couldn’t be. “Yes. You. Did. It was addressed to me, from you.” Oh, God. No. No. This isn’t happening. This isn’t reality. I’m dreaming. I’m in my room and I’m dreaming and Peter Kavinsky is in my dream, glaring at me. I close my eyes. Am I dreaming? Is this real? “Lara Jean?” I open my eyes. I’m not dreaming, and this is real. This is a nightmare. Peter Kavinsky is holding my letter in his hand. It’s my handwriting, my envelope, my everything. “How--how did you get that?” “It came in the mail yesterday.” Peter sighs. Gruffly he says, “Listen, it’s no big deal; I just hope you’re not going around telling people--” “It came in the mail? To your house?” “Yeah.” I feel faint. I actually feel faint. Please let me faint right now, because if I faint I will no longer be here, in this moment. It will be like in movies when a girl passes out from the horror of it all and the fighting happens while she is asleep and she wakes up in a hospital bed with a bruise or two, but she’s missed all the bad stuff. I wish that was my life instead of this.

When we get closer, he pushes out both of the chairs across from him. He nods at them and says, “Take a seat.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Am I going to have to woo you before I get my slice?” He smiles over the pizza that he’s about to bite into. “Yeah, I do believe you’re going to have to.” With zero self-respect, Amanda takes a seat and says, “That’s no problem with me.” Honestly. Does she not know how to avoid showing all her cards at once? When I take a seat, he holds out his hand. “I’m Aaron.” I take his hand and notice how rough it is. It’s a working hand, one that experiences strenuous hours on the jobsite, day in, day out. “Amelia, and this is my friend, Amanda.” Aaron nods at Amanda. “Nice to meet you.” “Pleasure is mine and just so you know, Amelia is single and definitely on the market. Want me to give you her number?” “Amanda, what the hell are you—?” “I would love it,” Aaron says, leaning back in his chair while sipping his drink. Slowly turning toward him, a little stunned, I ask, “You would?” He nods with all the confidence in the world. “I would.” “But you don’t know me. I could be a shovel-wielding rabbit killer.” He leans forward, his chest flexing under his shirt with the movement. “I’ll take my chances.” Now feeling a little skeptical, I fold my arms over my chest and ask, “Why do you want it?” He bites down on his straw and studies me for a second before saying, “Can’t let a girl walk out the door without getting her number who’s that passionate about Buffalo chicken pizza. It’s just not physically possible.” “Aw, he likes you for your crazy; he’s a keeper,” Amanda chimes in with her mouth full of pizza. “It’s 607—” “Amanda, just be quiet for a second.” Looking at Aaron, I say, “Three Buffalo chicken pizza slices in exchange for three veggie and my phone number.” “No way.” He shakes his head. “You can’t take all my Buffalo.” “But I thought you wanted my number.” “I do.” He leans forward some more, his fresh scent hitting me hard in the chest. “But we both know if I give you three slices, you will have zero respect for me because no man in his right mind would give up three Buffalo slices. No matter how hot the chick is.” Eeep, he thinks I’m hot. “But I will counter you with one and a half slices and a number.” I sit back now, watching how his smile starts to spread. God, he’s just so . . . yum. He looks like he’s quite a few years older than me. Not just because of his face, but there is something in his eyes that makes him seem older. He’s definitely not in his second year of college like me. Not wanting to fold so quickly, I counter. “Two slices, my number, and a guaranteed date this Friday.” He sits back, his eyes widen, and that smile gets even bigger. “Fucking deal.” He holds his hand out and we shake.

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What do you like on your pizza?” “Um…mushrooms. And onions. And green peppers.

Scurvy is a deficiency of Vitamin C. You don’t put sunshine or oranges on pizza, sweetheart.

How can you eat donuts—jelly donuts no less—just before viewing a postmortem examination?” Al licked his lips clean. “What’s the big deal? Donuts are one of the five major food groups.” “Oh, really?” “Never heard of them?” “Not your version.” Al grinned boyishly. “Pizza, burgers, carne asada, donuts, and pussy.

When I was in my early twenties, I was head over heels for this woman. She was gorgeous. Just a real beauty. And full of life,” he said between bites of a garlic roll. Most of us like to assume, or wish, that our parents only had sex with each other, and only the necessary number of times it took to produce us and our siblings, so it was strange to hear my dad talk so highly about a woman other than my mother. He never had before, and I was intrigued. “So me and her, we dated for a while. A long while. Then, one day, we got to talking, and I told her how much I loved her, and she looked at me and told me, ‘I don’t love you. I never will,’” he continued. “I’ll have a sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with the salad,” he said, turning to the waitress, who had been awkwardly standing next to our table waiting for my dad to finish his story so she could take our order. I placed my order, and the waitress left. “So what’d you do?” I asked. “I told her I thought that I could change that. Maybe she didn’t love me right now, but she would eventually.” “What’d she say?” “She said okay. And we stayed together. And we fought. We fought a lot. And then I realized I had made a big mistake. She had given me her youth, and it was gone, and I didn’t know how to get out of it. And then she got sick. And she was dying,” he said, taking a deep breath, thinking for a moment, as if he were replaying something in his mind he hadn’t thought of in a long time. “So I made good with her, and I stuck by her. And then she died. And I felt horrible. Because I felt like here was this woman who didn’t want to be with me, she told me that, and I ignored it. And she was spending the end of her life with someone she didn’t love. And now she was gone. And part of me felt relieved that I was freed out of this relationship, and that made me feel so terrible, I couldn’t deal with it.

She just wanted to sit on the couch with someone and eat pizza and talk about poetry and deep shit and be held through the night.

I made American pancakes this morning. Would you like some? I am about to serve the first batch to my guests." "I can make some for us," I said, taking in the batter, the greased griddle, and the bowl of apricots. "You can go and fuss over the guests." "Ah, bien," she answered, loading a platter full of beautiful apricot-studded pancakes to take away. "Bon, I pour the batter and place the slices over the top just so. They're very moist because of the crème fraîche, and then I serve them with a crème anglaise." "It looks great," I said, taking the ladle in hand and stirring the batter, just to get a feel for the consistency. "Don't worry about us." Sandrine grinned her thanks, and I turned my attention to breakfast. "I can do that, if you want to sit," Neil offered. I waved him away. "I can make pancakes in my sleep." "I liked that she called them 'American pancakes'." "Well, they are. French pancakes are crepes, and German pancakes are a whole other deal altogether." I ladled four puddles of batter onto the griddle, enjoying the sizzling sound they made as batter met butter. "English pancakes are closer to crepes, just thicker." "Reminds me of when I was in Toronto for a conference. I tried to order a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza but got tongue-tied." I laughed and began to arrange the apricots. "What did you do?" "I said 'Hawaiian' instead. The guy seemed to know what I was talking about." "Quick thinking." "Thank you." "In truth, between the crème fraîche and the crème anglaise topping, I think these pancakes are a bit more trans-Atlantic than American." "I'll take your word for it.

Word of Mouth: the Power of True Believers As everyone knows, word of mouth is the most effective advertising of all. Or, when in my cups, I have been known to say that there’s no better business to run than a cult. Trader Joe’s became a cult of the overeducated and underpaid, partly because we deliberately tried to make it a cult once we got a handle on what we were actually doing, and partly because we kept the implicit promises with our clientele. I used to work every Thanksgiving Day in one of the stores. They only let me bag, because I had lost all my checker skills. One Thanksgiving, a woman came in and asked for bourbon. I told her that we had none, because we had not been able to make the right kind of deal (this was after the end of Fair Trade, when we were deep in the Mac the Knife mode). “That’s all right,” she exclaimed. “I know what you’re trying to do for us!” Note the us. There aren’t many cult retailers who successfully retain their cult status over a long period of time. A couple in California are In ’n Out Burger and Fry’s Electronics. But across America, in every town, there’s a particular donut shop, pizza parlor, bakery, greengrocer, bar, etc., that has a cult following of True Believers. The old Petrini’s of the 1950s and 1960s had that status when it came to meat. Brooks Bros had that status until the 1970s. S. S. Pierce in Boston was another. But all of them failed to keep the faith. Beware of ever betraying the True Believers! The fury of a woman scorned is nothing compared with that of a betrayed cultee.

Caring for a dog, on the other hand, requires a great deal more effort. It’s not nearly as challenging as raising a child, but it’s a whole lot harder than making pizza from scratch. The rewards are far greater, but so is the mess.

This guy here on the screen—" Coupland turned up his laptop to show me the JPEG of the Chinese guy in Tiananmen Square. "Know what he’s doing now? He’s working out this co-sponsor deal with Verizon Wireless and Pizza Hut.

What’s this?” “A suppository.” “No.” “Shove that up your butt.” “No.” “It’s for science.” “No.” “Please?” “You are going to buy me pizza.” “Deal.” “A lot of pizza.

Think of it like a fast-food franchise, the informant said, like a pizza delivery service. Each heroin cell or franchise has an owner in Xalisco, Nayarit, who supplies the cell with heroin. The owner doesn’t often come to the United States. He communicates only with the cell manager, who lives in Denver and runs the business for him. Beneath the cell manager is a telephone operator, the informant said. The operator stays in an apartment all day and takes calls. The calls come from addicts, ordering their dope. Under the operator are several drivers, paid a weekly wage and given housing and food. Their job is to drive the city with their mouths full of little uninflated balloons of black tar heroin, twenty-five or thirty at a time in one mouth. They look like chipmunks. They have a bottle of water at the ready so if police pull them over, they swig the water and swallow the balloons. The balloons remain intact in the body and are eliminated in the driver’s waste. Apart from the balloons in their mouths, drivers keep another hundred hidden somewhere in the car. The operator’s phone number is circulated among heroin addicts, who call with their orders. The operator’s job, the informant said, is to tell them where to meet the driver: some suburban shopping center parking lot—a McDonald’s, a Wendy’s, a CVS pharmacy. The operators relay the message to the driver, the informant said. The driver swings by the parking lot and the addict pulls out to follow him, usually down side streets. Then the driver stops. The addict jumps into the driver’s car. There, in broken English and broken Spanish, a cross-cultural heroin deal is accomplished, with the driver spitting out the balloons the addict needs and taking his cash. Drivers do this all day, the guy said. Business hours—eight A.M. to eight P.M. usually. A cell of drivers at first can quickly gross five thousand dollars a day; within a year, that cell can be clearing fifteen thousand dollars daily. The system operates on certain principles, the informant said, and the Nayarit traffickers don’t violate them. The cells compete with each other, but competing drivers know each other from back home, so they’re never violent. They never carry guns. They work hard at blending in. They don’t party where they live. They drive sedans that are several years old. None of the workers use the drug. Drivers spend a few months in a city and then the bosses send them home or to a cell in another town. The cells switch cars about as often as they switch drivers. New drivers are coming up all the time, usually farm boys from Xalisco County. The cell owners like young drivers because they’re less likely to steal from them; the more experienced a driver becomes, the more likely he knows how to steal from the boss. The informant assumed there were thousands of these kids back in Nayarit aching to come north and drive some U.S. city with their mouths packed with heroin balloons.

Only Marshall didn’t blink an eye, mostly because, big confession, his favorite uncle is gay: Big effing deal. Why should I care if Uncle Ken is in love with a dude? It’s not like he gives me all the filthy details. And man, can that Taylor cook! Tell Luke to be sure and find someone who knows how to make homemade pizza. See, that is why I love Marshall.

THERE'S ALWAYS A LAX MAN DRAWING REKHAS AROUND YOU. It starts in childhood with your Mom screaming - Re Kha, to your youth, with bullies at school kicking your butt - re kha, to the teacher with the whip - re kha, the batsman hitting your balls for sixes - re kha, to the girlfriend making you eat your words - re kha, to the pizza delivery boy spitting on your pizza - re kha, to the man giving bribe to policeman - re kha, to the dirty deals with ministers - re kha, to channels pushing content down your throat - re kha, to doctors pushing tubes into your throat - re kha, and finally after death, your kids pushing ghee into your dead mouth - re kha! The only place it was relevant was at a relative's wedding. Re Kha! *For those unfamiliar with hindi re kha means 'EAT'' and rekha means 'lines'. Laxman rekha means to draw boundaries around a person.

Suzanne wouldn’t have any of the comparative suffering. She wasn’t going to minimize my hurt, and she wasn’t going to watch me rank-order my misery: “No, it’s not any of those things, but this is a big deal. This hurts.” I’ve learned a lot from research about the danger of comparative suffering and the race to misery. If we believe empathy is finite, like pizza, and practicing empathy with someone leaves fewer slices for others, then perhaps comparing levels of suffering would be necessary. Luckily, however, empathy is infinite and renewable. The more you give, the more we all have. That means all pain can be met with empathy—there’s no reason to rank and ration. This experience with Suzanne was empathy in practice. In those bad moments, it’s not our job to make things better. It’s just not. Our job is to connect. It’s to take the perspective of someone else. Empathy is not connecting to an experience, it’s connecting to the emotions that underpin an experience.

Other recession-born babies include Monopoly, Apple, Clif Bar, Scrabble, KFC, Domino’s Pizza, FedEx, and Microsoft. This is no coincidence, as economic downturns produce discounted infrastructure, outstanding freelancers at bargain prices, and rock-bottom advertising deals—all impossible when everyone is optimistic.

A snort of laughter escaped when I noticed a pair of hedges sculpted into the shape of a football and a championship trophy, respectively. They were so obviously satire that I could only shake my head. “Subtle. If you added your squad number, you’d have the trifecta on your lawn.” “That’s a great suggestion,” Asher said with all seriousness. “I’ll call my landscaper and let him know.” “Will you pay me a consulting fee for the idea?” “Only if you take it in the form of pizza and ice cream.” “Veggie and pistachio?” “Pepperoni and Rocky Road.” “Deal.

Because I was hoping you’d have better taste than that.” “I’m sorry you find vegetables boring, Garrett. Why don’t you give me a call when you get scurvy?” “Scurvy is a deficiency of Vitamin C. You don’t put sunshine or oranges on pizza, sweetheart.” In the end, I compromise by ordering two pizzas, one with Hannah’s boring-ass toppings, the other loaded with meat and cheese. I cover the mouthpiece and glance at her. “Diet Coke?” “Regular Coke, thank you very much.