By Erin Zimmer
Special to The Washington Post
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The most popular pizza topping at Philadelphia Pizza Co. in Georgetown, especially after midnight, isn't sausage, and it isn't pineapple. It's ranch dressing.
"We go through three to four gallons on Saturday nights," says Mehmet "Matt" Kocak, 31, manager of the landmark spot the students call "Philly-P." "Half that during the summer, with so many students gone." Just a few squirts add 19 grams of fat, but even waifish Hoyas in miniskirts don't seem to mind. Customers love the stuff so much, in fact, that at least one industrial-size jug is snatched every weekend.
But Kocak shrugs off the drunken larceny. And like a patient father, he spends many weekend nights picking up grease-splotched paper plates, accepting "I love you" declarations from his "kids" in line and helping them sort through financial confusion at the register.
For students (undergrad, grad or summer schoolers arriving now), this place just off M Street (1201 34th St. NW, 202-333-0100) is every bit as much a Georgetown requirement as basketball and Economist subscriptions. A five-inch-wide slice of crisp crust here gets smothered in the expected (tomato sauce and cheese) and unexpected (ranch dressing).
The ranch tradition here started four years ago when a young woman walked in and requested the dressing Kocak usually stocked for wings and salads. "She started telling her friends, and pretty soon I had to bring out that huge jug," he says. "Everyone was asking for it."
The combination is not so far from buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing, a guilty pleasure that pizza chains picked up on before capitalizing on this one, too. After the success of the ranch dressing that Pizza Hut started serving in 2005 as part of its Dippin' Strips (pies perforated into long rectangles), the chain began offering it with other orders, too.
Part of the appeal at Philly-P is the freedom to work the ranch dispenser. Before finals one Saturday last month, a herd forms around the almighty jug. "Oh, just wait. This is nothing," Kocak says. "It's only 1:30, and we'll have to refill that a couple more times tonight."
About to order, rising junior Joe Tesoriero is sporting a blue terry cloth bathrobe. He has just come from a pajama party and, after five hours of revelry, needs his Philly fix. "Not sure if my night is over yet, but stopping at Philly-P is a tradition," Tesoriero says. He's one of an estimated 500 eaters who inhale a slice on a typical weekend night during the academic year; the total is about half that in the summer.
After six years of managing the late-night joint, with another location opening a few blocks away next month, Kocak has it running with the efficiency of a factory. His 10 staffers, mostly Turkish-born 20-something males with work permits, are assigned specific stations: one on phones, another at the register, a couple boxing up slices, a few more flipping dough and four on delivery duty.
At 2:25 a.m., the line peaks at 32, not at all unusual for this hour, and Kocak introduces me to a regular. Rising junior Molly Breen, a "Chicago Chicago girl, like from the city," she asserts, grew up on deep-dish but for the past two years has eaten here five times a week.
"Lou Malnati's is my favorite in the world, hands down," she says. Her mom even sends frozen pies from the regional chain. Now, whenever she's home and eating there, Breen requests ranch.
At Philly-P, she squirts on a Z-shaped design. Others rub it on like sunscreen. Some create clean ovals resembling gourmet buffalo mozzarella disks. But most just go for it, as if squeezing ketchup over fries.
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.
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