What is it with people who brag that the crust is their favorite part of a pizza? What, then, is the point of eating the pepperoni, the peppers, the mushrooms, the cheese, the sauce? Why not just scour a given parlor’s trash receptacles for leftover crust? Or order a bunch of crust—hold the pepperoni, the peppers, the mushrooms, the cheese, the sauce? The best part of pizza is the pizza: the double z, G. Not the crust. The crust is for the birds.
Village Pizza in Roslyn understands that crust, in and of itself, is nothing special, which is not to say that they serve their pies without it. Rather, they take a charmingly unusual step to bolster this blandness, providing customers with packets of honey and all but insisting that they drench their crust in it. The honey, therefore, functions like a free topping, an accoutrement meant to elevate crust to dessert. If you’re a crust junkie scouring Village Pizza’s trash cans for uneaten crusts, you’ll be SOL. This tasty gimmick is good for the environment, too.
When I visited Roslyn (if you were living under a rock or in California during the ’90s, this is where they filmed Northern Exposure) on a chilly Wednesday night, while a thrilling double-overtime Phoenix victory over Dallas played on the tube at dog-friendly Marko’s around the corner, the matriarch of the Ellensburg family that owns Village Pizza was discussing spring break as dinner rush drew to a close. She was going to take the family to Daytona Beach, with her teenage daughter voluntarily staying behind to keep watch over the family fort (or throw a party).
Just east of the mountains before you hit Cle Elum, Roslyn, which has somehow avoided the post-Exposure tourist claptrap, is bracing for the completion of the gaudy Suncadia golfing resort nearby, which promises hordes of rich white couples with pressed khakis, bad sweaters, and fat wallets. What’s that spell? Gentrification. Hopefully, downtown Roslyn’s beer-swilling, timber ‘n’ coal bohemian vibe will remain largely intact.
But back to the pie….Eaten back in our room directly above the parlor at Harry’s Inn, the slices were meaty, reminiscent of the vastly underappreciated Italian Spaghetti House on Lake City Way, which is single-handedly responsible for providing the carbs that fueled at least a half-dozen Blanchet High School cross-country titles. And thanks to the honey, the crust was divine. It was my favorite part of the pizza, except for the toppings and cheese.
