The most popular pizza topping at Philadelphia Pizza Co. inGeorgetown, especially after midnight, isn't sausage, and it isn'tpineapple. It's ranch dressing.
'We go through three to four gallons on Saturday nights,' saysMehmet 'Matt' Kocak, 31, manager of the landmark spot the studentscall 'Philly-P.' 'Half that during the summer, with so many studentsgone.' Just a few squirts add 19 grams of fat, but even waifishHoyas in miniskirts don't seem to mind. Customers love the stuff somuch, in fact, that at least one industrial-size jug is snatchedevery weekend.
But Kocak shrugs off the drunken larceny. And like a patientfather, he spends many weekend nights picking up grease-splotchedpaper plates, accepting 'I love you' declarations from his 'kids' inline and helping them sort through financial confusion at theregister.
For students (undergrad, grad or summer schoolers arriving now),this place just off M Street (1201 34th St. NW, 202-333-0100) isevery bit as much a Georgetown requirement as basketball andEconomist subscriptions. A five-inch-wide slice of crisp crust heregets smothered in the expected (tomato sauce and cheese) andunexpected (ranch dressing).
The ranch tradition here started four years ago when a youngwoman walked in and requested the dressing Kocak usually stocked forwings and salads. 'She started telling her friends, and pretty soonI had to bring out that huge jug,' he says. 'Everyone was asking forit.'
The combination is not so far from buffalo wings with blue cheesedressing, a guilty pleasure that pizza chains picked up on beforecapitalizing on this one, too. After the success of the ranchdressing that Pizza Hut started serving in 2005 as part of itsDippin' Strips (pies perforated into long rectangles), the chainbegan offering it with other orders, too.
Part of the appeal at Philly-P is the freedom to work the ranchdispenser. Before finals one Saturday last month, a herd formsaround the almighty jug. 'Oh, just wait. This is nothing,' Kocaksays. 'It's only 1:30, and we'll have to refill that a couple moretimes tonight.'
About to order, rising junior Joe Tesoriero is sporting a blueterry cloth bathrobe. He has just come from a pajama party and,after five hours of revelry, needs his Philly fix. 'Not sure if mynight is over yet, but stopping at Philly-P is a tradition,'Tesoriero says. He's one of an estimated 500 eaters who inhale aslice on a typical weekend night during the academic year; the totalis about half that in the summer.
After six years of managing the late-night joint, with anotherlocation 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 specificstations: one on phones, another at the register, a couple boxing upslices, 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 thishour, and Kocak introduces me to a regular. Rising junior MollyBreen, a 'Chicago Chicago girl, like from the city,' she asserts,grew up on deep-dish but for the past two years has eaten here fivetimes a week.
'Lou Malnati's is my favorite in the world, hands down,' shesays. 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 onlike sunscreen. Some create clean ovals resembling gourmet buffalomozzarella disks. But most just go for it, as if squeezing ketchupover fries.
A little over a year ago, I was another Hoya engaging in thissame late-night calorie fest, when ordering greasy pie withroommates always seemed like a good idea. The ranch never did it forme, though, even after a few drinks.
By 2:45 a.m., delivery driver Hanif Karas motions to me. I hadasked to join him for a delivery run, and after piling five boxesinto the back seat, he starts accelerating down Prospect Street withHot 99.5 FM blaring Snoop Dogg.
Arriving at the foot of Village C, my freshman-year dorm, Karasdials a New York area code, just another strange number in hiscellphone. A giggly girl awaits, ready for her two boxes. As shestruggles to figure out the tip, Karas chuckles but doesn't rushher. Like his boss, he needs the patience of a kindergarten teachergiven his nightly obstacles: wrong numbers, no tips, no money atall, parallel parking woes and even near-death moments.
'I deliver pizza to this guy who was in the middle of thestreet. 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 graduallyreplaced by clubbers from downtown dance floors. London-bornHarpbreet Jutley is with his boys, but he also likes to bring girlshere, treating it like his after-party. 'At first they say, 'Ew,mayo.' Because they don't like fat and stuff. But then they comearound,' Jutley says.
At 3:45 a.m., another five boxes are tossed into Karas's backseat and we're headed on another delivery run. Arriving at an OStreet townhouse, graduating senior Tyler Crawford -- part of lastseason's standout Hoyas basketball team -- answers his front doorin 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 youwouldn't think it from his abs. His girlfriend interrupts frominside. 'Only three tonight! You're saving me one!'
At the next stop, nobody answers the door. 'The guy must havefallen asleep,' Karas says after leaving a voice mail, but hedoesn't seem fazed. As the night goes on, the pass-out rateincreases, and returning with unclaimed pie is inevitable. Back atthe store, they'll just sell it by the slice, no problem.
The doors at Philly-P are still open when we roll up again at4:35 a.m. Inside, Kocak is yawning. That two-hour catnap before his9 p.m. shift has worn off. One phone is still in use, and all fivecredit card machines are still lit up. After fixing a few orders forcabbies, Kocak locks up at 4:45 a.m.
Cleaning the oven, he offers me a slice, but I pause -- not outof politeness, but because I spot the chicken-hummus-veggie pitasandwich on the menu. Kocak used to work at the Mediterraneanrestaurant and carryout Bistro Med on M Street, and after thebusiness 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 wantpizza. But I had to bring it back here.'
As the sleep deprivation starts to hit me, too, I know what I'llbe having. For once, pizza isn't on my agenda here tonight and, perusual, that ranch dressing will stay safely on the counter. Far awayfrom me.
Erin Zimmer is headed to New York City to work at the food siteSeriouseats.com.
