Reggio's Pizza — Restaurant in Jefferson Township

My flight to Chicago was delayed and I had a very tight connection. Ran to Reggio’s in the hopes that I could grab a pizza and eat it on my next flight. There was a long line but I got in it. When it was my turn in line, the man behind the counter declared “these are the only pizzas we have” which were all meat. I told him that I was vegetarian and he could care less, all he cared about was that it was approaching closing time and wanted to go home. Another female staffmember took pity and took my order for a cheese pizza at which point the manager came out (who was very kind and clearly understood her deficient staff members) and said that anyone in line before closing could order food and then they would cut it off. So they then took the orders of like 10-15 people, and didn’t put them into the kitchen until all of them were gathered. And to make things worse, they put the orders into the kitchen in reverse order, so my order for cheese pizza went in last. When I told the original staff member that I was first in line and rushing to catch my flight and should have my order in first, he again could care less. So then I asked for a refund and he barely obliged me by getting the nice manager to refund me. Overall a terrible experience. Airport food vendors are more than just a normal fast food place, they sometimes are called upon to provide a critical service to stranded or rushed passengers whose plans for food have been disrupted. I’m writing this review while sitting on my flight, hungry. Shame on the employee who treated me so poorly because he wanted to leave work early and close up shop. Thank you to the manager who tried her best but clearly has a lot of work to do...

They say “when in Rome, do as the Romans do.” And so I did. During my first visit to Chicago O’Hare airport, I ordered a Chicago-style pizza to satiate my hunger before my connecting flight. It wasn’t until my third slice that I realized, this isn’t Chicago style; the sauce was under the cheese where it belongs. Nevertheless, I wanted to end my year in DC the same way I started it: with airport pizza. For most people, Reggio’s Pizza Express sausage pizza would be nothing to write home about. But I’m not most people so I’ll write about it. I’ve never had real Chicago-style, sauce on top pizza; I’ve only seen them in pictures, heard of them through stories. Presumably, this pizza’s sauce amount doesn’t come close to a Chicago style. But it had enough sauce that working my way towards the crust briefly left a joker-esque red smile on my face. The sausage. It’s a good, well seasoned, marble-sized chunk of a topping. Now for the crust, the most left-behind part of the pizza. This wasn’t your average pizza crust. It was flaky and buttery, similarly to a pie crust. It’s not as soft and chewy like the crust you’d find in NYC or Little Caesar’s. But it’s definitely enjoyable. I had a bit of a heavy pour with the chili flakes, perhaps subconsciously adding spice to mask the bittersweetness of leaving DC, my home for the past year. Overall, the pizza’s good, it did its job. It’s not spectacular, but I didn’t expect it to be. Sometimes all you need is a pie that brings things full-circle and helps you reflect on the past year and the uncertainty of the future. A tall order but the...

Let us begin by clarifying a foundational term: “pizza.” In most linguistic and cultural frameworks, “pizza” refers to a cohesive amalgamation of dough, sauce, cheese, and (optionally) toppings, ideally arranged in a manner that invites both pleasure and sustenance. What I received from Reggio’s at O’Hare International Airport was not, in any meaningful or metaphysical sense, a pizza. It was a warm disc of despair.

I ordered the cheese deep dish. What arrived was a thick, barely tepid carbohydrate basin filled with something approximating dairy—a pale, rubberized strata of coagulated cheese-substance that neither melted nor mingled with its accompanying elements. The sauce was ladled on with the exuberance of someone punished for enthusiasm. It tasted like a tomato once texted someone who had eaten garlic.

The crust—if we dignify it with that term—was less “golden-brown” than “beige with resentment.” Its texture landed somewhere between wet cork and despair-soaked biscuit. The entire construct fought back against each bite as if ashamed of its own existence, resisting not just chewing but comprehension.

This was not merely a bad meal. It was a betrayal of semiotics. A thing that claimed to be “deep dish” while embodying neither depth nor dish. I have encountered existentialist plays with more cohesion.

To consume this pizza was to participate in a culinary gaslighting, a ritual humiliation of the concept of Chicago-style anything. If Sartre had been handed this pizza, he would have thrown it into the...