pizzahavenpic.jpg
Brian Miller
Seattle's last remaining Haven for Pizza, in the corner of a sprawling food court.
Pizza Haven, like Ron Burgundy, was kind of a

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Pizza Haven Is the Ron Burgundy of Pizzerias

pizzahavenpic.jpg
Brian Miller
Seattle's last remaining Haven for Pizza, in the corner of a sprawling food court.
Pizza Haven, like Ron Burgundy, was kind of a big deal. Founded in the University District in the '50s, it grew to include 42 franchises and 700 employees, with retail operations in Russia and the Middle East.

Now, there's but one Pizza Haven left (there are unaffiliated outfits in NYC and Australia), with two employees at a time keeping the heat lamps warm. Fittingly, the last Pizza Haven is in the Center House, which is quite possibly Seattle's epicenter of nostalgia. Chihuly-shmihuly; the hoards of tourists and day-camp groups that swarm the Center House's food court for lunch every day seem blissfully unaware of what's to become of the Fun Forest or the Seattle Center grounds in general. What other venue in town holds a monthly Community Square Dance, not counting senior centers? Nowhere, that's where. It's got an Orange Julius too; and don't forget about the Monorail, the World's Fair-era relic of opportunity lost, which literally ferries its happy passengers from food court to food court (Center House's to Westlake Center's), as though riding the mile-long route was somehow tantamount to running it.

Pizza Haven doesn't make pizza that anyone would confuse with the thin-crust, cilantro-addled boom that's currently consuming the city. It's a harkening back to a time before Windows, white rappers and skinny-jeaned snark, when Shakey's, Godfather's, and Pizza & Pipes roamed the earth, serving mediocre, unpretentious pies and pitchers of beer to adult softball teams and twenty-tops of eight-year-olds (they drank root beer).

For $7.99 at the last remaining Pizza Haven, you get a medium soda and two slices. The pepperoni is serviceable, but the combo looks like a toy pizza, appearing as though uncooked and layered with plastic orange and white cheese. When you were a kid, you served this slice to your stuffed dog, Fat Henry, who fucking loved it despite the fact that he didn't technically have a tongue.

Whether you love it depends on how refined your taste buds are. But it'll fill you up...with nostalgia.

Pizza Haven, Seattle Center House, 441-8686 QUEEN ANNE

 
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