"He and I both had a ton of pizzeria and greasy-spoon experience throughout high school and college, because the Western New York area is one where you can't blindly throw a rock out of your window without hitting a pizzeria and then having it ricochet and hit a Greek diner before losing inertia and coming to rest at the entrance to a hot dog joint. As such, our combined fooding experience only necessitated the two of us being there from open, through lunch, and until dinnertime. This was cool, because it gave us ample time to hang out, do crosswords, and just generally fuck around.
"Just to give you an idea what this place was like: The owner also ran a second location of the same pizzeria that he CLEARLY cared much more about than the one my friend and I manned. His store was in fancy new digs in a younger, growing, and much more affluent neighborhood. Ours was in a plaza built before the A-bomb and in a town populated by people from that same era still with Great Depression sensibilities. His store had wonderful services like supply delivery and contained kitchen equipment that was safe, functional, and effective. Our store relied on infrequent supply drop-offs from the owner in his shitty Tacoma pick-up or, failing that, me running down the street to Restaurant Depot to procure luxuries like flour, tomato sauce, and cheese. You may recognize those ingredients as being THE THINGS YOU NEED TO MAKE A FUCKING PIZZA. As for OUR kitchen tools and equipment, well, I'm certain some long-dead Buffalo restaurateur had once paid top dollar for it all through Yugoslavian black-market mail-order catalogs.