Before my move to North Carolina, Sunday football was terribly different for me. Not as extreme a change that it's been since my move to Iraq, but very different none the less. The keggerator was usually mostly full, or there was ample long necks in the fridge awaiting consumption causing inebriation, yelling and throwing objects. The big screen at the house in California, providing high definition footage of every exciting play and all the action of every game to be played Sundays. To top it all off, to make the ice cold brew wash down that much better, having to chase $5 Little Ceasar Pizzas, bought by the pick of the shortest straw loser in their quick run during halftime. The real competition of racing down Glenoaks Blvd. pickin' up the pizzas and avoiding speeding tickets along with avoiding the large dips that hide so cleverly in the City of Los Angeles roads. Pizza, beer, underwear and football a Sunday tradition. Iraq has slightly changed that for me, but at least there's one constant to sustain a sense of home. Pizza.
I'm not talking about Digorno, or some kind of frozen pizza that we as Americans are able to get over here, toss in the microwave and go to work on. I'm talking about made at a Pizzeria, hot and fresh. Not Dominoes, Pizza Hut, Papa Johns, Little Caesar's, Ameechi's or Rhudinos, but a restaurant that you have never eaten at, and certainly never heard of. I'm not quite sure the English from Arabic spelling, but this is my best attempt: Saque Pronounced- SEC CA or SUK UH. Which is an old Arabic word that means 'Man who carries water from river.' As in the sense that there are no aqueducts or waterlines, so that's his job. Weird name for a Pizza place, but damn did they make a good Pizza.
saque (sec ca) (suk uh)
Bob our terp brought me a Pizza after I asked him if they in fact had outside food other than things like falaful and goat feces. He told me they did, and I saw no better way to compliment opening weekend then to indulge in a $10 Pizza. Having eaten some horrible tasting Iraqi food before, I was a little timid at first, but when he handed me the colorfully decorated box, the smell enveloped and overwhelmed my senses. I had to have a piece immediately, and if my smell were to let me down, I would be terribly heartbroken. However it did not, and my smell and taste buds were once again on the same page. The pizza, a meat lover supreme, was so hot and delicious that it almost fast forwarded me two months ahead to the taste of home, and at the same time rewinding me to couch sitting digesting Little Caesar's and Sundays. Being a fair sport to the rest of the platoon, I allowed an indulgence from others, and before I could get my camera and take a picture of the one slice missing pizza, the platoon mates had already devoured nearly half. Needless to say, it appears that this might become a weekly ritual here, just like home. Perhaps even more frequently than that.
A side-note; pig products in this country, around this culture are rare, and actually obsolete. So the meat lovers pizza was probably mutton instead of pepperoni, but on that same token, I couldn't really care after the taste. Plus I eat plenty of meat cooked in the Army, that is a complete mystery, so it's not too far of a stretch. Finally, in 9 months of being here, and I've finally found something good about this place! Weird that it comes from Italy. Shukran Allah! Or maybe I should say, Deo Gratia!
VIKES! and are there Italians in Iraq?
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