Tortilla Pizzas

In the past month I’ve spent so much time in doctor’s offices that I considered renting a hospital room. Why not cut my commute, save gas, spend maximum time in my favorite staycation destination?

Granted, there were drawbacks. Hospitals are amazingly crowded places. It’s kind of like going to a rock concert, except instead of sharing the same musical tastes, you’re all sick.

Then there was the food. Not that I ever sampled it. The hospital cafeteria just off the main entrance. From this optimal site, it emanates heavy institutional odors that hang in the lobby. Nobody would call these remotely appetizing. Or even identifiable as food. Well, since we’re being honest, the smell is downright sickening.

So instead of renting a room, I rode the hospital shuttle to and from Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART). The shuttles are free, and it’s cheaper to BART than drive. But any time you throw a bunch of strangers on public transit, you’re gonna get weirdness. When those strangers are either going to or coming from medical appointments, all bets are off. Toss cell phones into mix and you’re holding a lighter in one hand and full can of hairspray in the other.

One day I boarded the bus and heard a cell phone ringing behind me. The man who answered had a deep basso profoundo voice that would carry in a whisper. Which, to his credit, he was attempting.

“Last night. It happened last night.”

Pause while the caller spoke.

“He’s still in jail…Nobody posted bail.”

Silence while the rest of the bus pretended not to listen.

“I am on a shuttle. No. I cannot speak to you now. I am on a bus. I have to get off the phone now.”

Others aren’t so well-mannered. A couple weeks later I caught a ride with one of my favorite drivers, a stylish lady who really works her false eyelashes.

The bus had barely pulled out when a cell started ringing. Loudly. When the woman across from me answered, everyone present learned more than the ringtone was cranked up. The caller was a nurse, who informed the bus at large that the lady’s husband was being moved to a nursing home at 3:00 that afternoon.

Remember Latka Gravas? Well, this lady hailed from Latkaland, only she was far less lovable. For 20 minutes bus and nurse were held hostage as Latka Lady asked the poor woman to repeat herself. Where was the nursing home? Where in San Jose? Could she repeat that?

Meanwhile, she wrote nothing down.

Lest you think me a heartless brute without a shred of sympathy, I did try to feel for her. Until she finally ended the call only to telephone her daughter. “He’s being transferred to a nursing home this afternoon,” she screeched.

The daughter asked where. Latka Lady told her. Where was that? asked the daughter.

“Don’t make me repeat this a dozen times!” Latka Lady yelled. “Once is enough!”

Mercifully, we’d arrived at BART. Before disembarking, I whispered into the driver’s ear: “However much you get paid, you deserve more.”

—

You could argue these experiences have nothing to do with cooking, and you’d be right. Except the doctor’s offices, and everything about them–the shuttles, the pharmacy (another day), the waiting rooms (possibly never), the tests, the “procedures” (never and never)– are a part of my life, and once over with, I have to come home and carry on. Which is difficult, because regardless of how the visit went, just going is draining. And joking aside, witnessing human suffering is painful, particularly when the suffering are children.

Maybe you’re thinking: tortilla pizzas? Do I need a recipe for these? Maybe you don’t. But if you are like me, and didn’t know about these until somebody told you, let me tell you. Tortilla pizzas are a lifesaver on days you’re so tired you don’t know the question. Days you want a hot meal but cannot face cooking. Days you return from the doctor’s office,  a meeting with your horrible supervisor, another day listening to your moronic colleagues, insert life issues of choice here, too abused in mind and body to face the stove, or anything else. Days you must eat something decent but cannot bear the thought of blowing money on takeout. Tortilla pizza is calling to you. All you need to have in the house is tortillas, which do you the favor of freezing well. For this reason I try to buy piles of them. It’s incredible how many tortillas two people can put away.

The beauty of tortilla pizza–after its speed–is its infinite flexibility. The tortilla may be topped with just about anything, making it perfect for family members of differing tastes. Consider: John is not fond of onion, whereas I cannot have enough of them. No need to argue: His tortilla pizza is spread with tomato paste, cheese, minced fresh garlic, olives, oil-cured tomatoes, and whatever ham product is lying around. My tortilla pizza receives similar treatment, only olives are replaced with thinly sliced shallot or onion. Both pizzas receive liberal scatterings of freshly grated parmesan and are drizzled with olive oil, then slid beneath the broiler element for about five minutes. Dinner is served.

This is only one version; variations are endless. Long after I found the original recipe in the Gourmet cookbook Five Ingredients, under the chapter heading “Substantial Snacks”, the recipe surfaced again, this time in Chez Jacques, Jacques Pépin’s very personal book of family favorites. Like Gourmet, Pépin uses tortillas as a base, but his pizzas are classier, calling for upscale ingredients like Cherrystone clams and cured salmon. Hey, that’s why he’s Jacques Pépin and I’m blogging in the Insufficient Kitchen.

Giving a recipe is really offering a blueprint; much depends on the size of your tortillas, your appetite, and whether your prefer your pizza blistered or just cooked. One word of advice: don’t overload your tortilla to the point of capsizing. Then again, don’t be so austere that all you have is broiled tortilla. Here, as in life, it is a question of balance.

Pizzas in the photographs: at left, leftover chicken, scallion, and pepperoni. Right: Mozzarella, capers, and home-made cherry tomatoes cured in olive oil. Both atop tomato paste and grated parmesan cheese.