Fools Rush In by Janice Thompson Page B

dueling pistols. Ours had dueling pizzas. What could I say?
    Still, I couldn’t help but feel bad for the poor guy. One day he was a happy-go-lucky construction worker humming a country tune to pass the time. The next, he was a pizza-making deejay with a Dean Martin mandate hanging over his head.
    I rose from my barstool and tagged behind the others into the oversized kitchen, where Joey slaved away. He looked over at D.J. with a “Hey,” then at Tony with an “Uh-oh” and moved over a bit to continue his work.
    Uncle Laz pulled out a batch of freshly made dough and a couple of containers of homemade sauce, then leaned against his cane as he made an announcement. “Gentlemen, you are free to use anything you find in this kitchen. I don’t care what kind of pizza you make—just come up with something edible. Forty-five minutes from now, one of you will be crowned the winner and will earn the right to name the barbecue pizza.”
    I took note of Tony’s puffed-out chest—a familiar sight. And I saw the wrinkles in D.J.’s brow—also familiar by now.
    “May the best man win!” Laz exclaimed. Then he turned to Jenna and me and said, “Ladies, out of the kitchen.”
    “But—” I said.
    “No buts.”
    I returned to my seat at the counter and watched through the opening leading to the kitchen. Tony slipped on an apron over his dress shirt and began to move at lightning speed, spreading his dough across the large pan, then ladling on ample amounts of sauce. He laid it on thick—the silent bragging, not the sauce.
    D.J., on the other hand, looked at the dough as if it were some sort of alien being. Finally, likely intimidated by Tony’s speed, he took it in his hands and began to spread it out on the pan. Okay, so it didn’t quite reach the edges, but who cared, really? No one said the pizzas had to be shaped perfectly, they just had to taste great.
    Tony started cooking up a pan of sausage on the stove, and the whole room filled with a tantalizing aroma. This would be hard to beat. I watched as D.J. reached for a skillet. He ambled over to the refrigerator, returning with a pound of hamburger.
    Hamburger?
    He fried it up in the pan, then lightly simmered some onions on top.
    By now, Tony had covered his pizza in large lumps of fried Italian sausage. To that, he added ham, pepperoni, anchovies, and an ample spread of black olives. Yummy.
    I watched with fear and trembling as D.J. added cayenne pepper to his meat and onion mixture. He spread it out on top of the pizza, then looked at Laz, dead serious as he asked, “You got any pinto beans ’round here?”
    “Pinto beans?” Jenna and I looked at each other, dazed. Who put pinto beans on a pizza?
    Laz nodded. “My pinto bean soup is the best on the island. I always keep them on hand.” He pointed to the supply cabinet in the back of the room. D.J. returned moments later with a can of pinto beans. He drained the juice and covered the spicy meat and onion mixture with the tiny brown beans. Certainly didn’t look very appetizing.
    “Got any jalapeños?” he asked.
    My eyes widened. Man. Talk about one spicy pizza!
    Uncle Laz brought him a couple of fresh jalapeños, and he took to chopping them, then placed the thin slices atop his meat, onion, and bean mixture.
    My gaze shifted to Tony, who’d taken the block of mozzarella and started slicing ample amounts to seal the deal on his Italian lover’s delight. My mouth watered as I watched those pieces slide into place. I could almost imagine them bubbling away in the oven. Nothing tempted me more than mozzarella. Well, other than cheesecake. And tiramisu. And one very handsome deejay who now had a puzzled expression on his face.
    “Do you need something?” I asked.
    He nodded, then looked over at Laz and asked, “Where’s the real cheese?”
    “Excuse me?” Uncle Lazarro gave him an incredulous look. “ Real cheese? This is real cheese.” He lifted the block of mozzarella, and for a moment I thought he