The bus I ride some mornings passes the ramshackle headquarters of a local catering business called “Secret Chef.” The building’s windows are covered in wooden furring-like material and no hours-of-operation or contact information is posted. I have to question the wisdom of associating secrecy with food preparation. I want to know what’s going in my mouth and who’s preparing it. What is that “secret sauce”? Which “eleven herbs and spices” are you talking about? I want to be able to tell the public health inspectors the name of my murderer as I lay dying of listeriosis.
Honestly, I can’t say if “Secret Chef” is truly a secretive organization — I picture its cooks in ninja gear operating in the dark — or if it’s just an attempt for a clever name. But I am familiar with a truly secret food operation — the mysterious “Secret Pizza” of Iowa City.
Back in Iowa City in the early 90’s, a man named Roger operated Secret Pizza, the location of which truly was a secret. Whenever you ordered a pizza, Roger would deliver it and give you a cryptic clue about the whereabouts of his establishment. If, after you ordered several pizzas and strung together his clues, you figured it out, you’d get a free pizza. It was an interesting gimmick.
Secret Pizza appeared to be a one-man operation. Roger was a short, portly man with coke-bottle glasses and what appeared to be a degree of emotional instability. He took all orders and delivered all pies. Upon delivery, he insisted on being let into your apartment so he could open the pizza box and go over things with you. This was not as unnecessary as it sounds because Roger was also prone to altering your order if it didn’t suit his refined tastes. Occasionally, he would outright refuse to make a pizza with a certain combination of ingredients, so he’d want to explain his substitutions. But sometimes he’d do something nice like throw on a three-cheese blend and he would just want to show you. The man took pride in his work.
The pizza was actually quite good and was worth the idiosyncratic behavior of its courier. The real problem with Secret Pizza, however, was the delivery time. This was back in the days when the pizza industry was still under the dark cloud of Domino’s Pizza and its “crappy pizza, but delivered real fast!” business model. Customers had grown to expect a 30-minute-or-less guarantee, and Roger was having none of that. One hour was typical. Two hours was not unheard of. I never had tremendous problems with that aspect of it (which led me to assume he operated near my apartment) but the general buzz about town was that you shouldn’t order Secret Pizza if you were really hungry.
One night, my friend Mark and his girlfriend experienced the dark side of Roger. They had ordered a Secret Pizza (their first) and planned to eat it before going to a movie. The pizza was a long time in coming (as usual) and the movie’s start time drew closer. Finally, with moments to spare, they decided to give up and leave him a note on their front door explaining they had to leave. The note made it to the door, but Mark and his girlfriend were still inside getting ready when Roger pulled up. He saw the note and flipped out. He proceeded to rant and scream around their house, peering in windows, and bashing on the front door. Mark and his girlfriend cowered in their bedroom until Roger stormed off.
After hearing that, I didn’t order from Secret Pizza anymore, and the whole incident has probably contributed to my general mistrust of food secrecy.
