The roof of my mouth never stood a chance.
Molten pizza cheese runs 150–180°F straight out of the oven. Mozzarella holds heat as no other cheese — the oils and moisture stay locked together, preventing heat from transferring even after you pull the slice away.
That quarter-sized loose flap of skin hanging from the roof of my mouth afterward? Pizza palate, dentists call it. A classic pan pizza injury.
I ate it piping hot, anyway.
The smell hit me before the food did. Warm dough. Whole-milk mozzarella browning at the edges, richer than what most places use. I walked through the door, and the place was already working its way into my mind.
Red cups. Pac-Man machines. The salad bar Tiffany lamps throw amber light onto checkered tablecloths. Booths that squeaked when I slid in with my family on a packed Friday night.
