At This Georgetown Joint, They Come for the Topping in the Jug

Like a lot of customers at Philadelphia Pizza, Diek Minkhorst, left, prefers his slice slathered with ranch dressing. (By Bill O'leary -- The Washington Post)
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A little over a year ago, I was another Hoya engaging in this same late-night calorie fest, when ordering greasy pie with roommates always seemed like a good idea. The ranch never did it for me, though, even after a few drinks.

By 2:45 a.m., delivery driver Hanif Karas motions to me. I had asked to join him for a delivery run, and after piling five boxes into the back seat, he starts accelerating down Prospect Street with Hot 99.5 FM blaring Snoop Dogg.

Arriving at the foot of Village C, my freshman-year dorm, Karas dials a New York area code, just another strange number in his cellphone. A giggly girl awaits, ready for her two boxes. As she struggles to figure out the tip, Karas chuckles but doesn't rush her. Like his boss, he needs the patience of a kindergarten teacher given his nightly obstacles: wrong numbers, no tips, no money at all, parallel parking woes and even near-death moments.

"I deliver pizza to this guy who was in the middle of the street. A bus came by and almost hit him, but I saved him," he says.

Back at headquarters, it's 3:20 a.m., and Hoyas are gradually replaced by clubbers from downtown dance floors. London-born Harpbreet Jutley is with his boys, but he also likes to bring girls here, treating it like his after-party. "At first they say, 'Ew, mayo.' Because they don't like fat and stuff. But then they come around," Jutley says.

At 3:45 a.m., another five boxes are tossed into Karas's back seat and we're headed on another delivery run. Arriving at an O Street townhouse, graduating senior Tyler Crawford -- part of last season's standout Hoyas basketball team -- answers his front door in jersey shorts and no shirt.

Crawford isn't shy about his five-order-per-week average, claiming he can wolf down four slices (the whole pie), though you wouldn't think it from his abs. His girlfriend interrupts from inside. "Only three tonight! You're saving me one!"

At the next stop, nobody answers the door. "The guy must have fallen asleep," Karas says after leaving a voice mail, but he doesn't seem fazed. As the night goes on, the pass-out rate increases, and returning with unclaimed pie is inevitable. Back at the store, they'll just sell it by the slice, no problem.

The doors at Philly-P are still open when we roll up again at 4:35 a.m. Inside, Kocak is yawning. That two-hour catnap before his 9 p.m. shift has worn off. One phone is still in use, and all five credit card machines are still lit up. After fixing a few orders for cabbies, Kocak locks up at 4:45 a.m.

Cleaning the oven, he offers me a slice, but I pause -- not out of politeness, but because I spot the chicken-hummus-veggie pita sandwich on the menu. Kocak used to work at the Mediterranean restaurant and carryout Bistro Med on M Street, and after the business closed in 2005, I would dream of their trademark sandwich, my go-to during anti-cafeteria phases.

"Kids don't care for this stuff as much," he said. "They want pizza. But I had to bring it back here."

As the sleep deprivation starts to hit me, too, I know what I'll be having. For once, pizza isn't on my agenda here tonight and, per usual, that ranch dressing will stay safely on the counter. Far away from me.

Erin Zimmer is headed to New York City to work at the food site Seriouseats.com.