I’ll admit it. I’m a sucker for Pizza Hut’s stuffed crust pizza. You know, the one that packs as much cheese as possible into every crevice of the pizza pie? Wait – are there crevices on a pizza? That’s a little disgusting. Anyway, about once a year I find myself in the mood for some of this cheesy goodness and immediately reach for the phone to have one delivered pronto. My annual craving reared its greasy little head last week so I set off on what I thought would be an easy mission: find my local Pizza Hut.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
That sounds easy enough, right? Just go to their store locator page, type in my zip code, and boom – Bob’s your uncle. I was given three stores to choose from so I called the one at 13th & U since it seemed to be the closest to me.

“Hello, thank you for calling Pizza Hut. Can I get your order?”

“Yeah, I’d like a pepperoni stuffed crust pizza please.”

“What’s your address?”

“Yada yada yada…”

“Please hold.” I then proceeded to hold for about five minutes. “Um, we don’t deliver to that address. You need to call the one on M street.”

“Oooooook. I’ll do that. Thank you.”

*click*

I took the (not so) nice woman’s advice and called the M street Pizza Hut, only to be told that they would not deliver to my address, and that I should call the location at 13th & U. Apparently neither of these stores wanted my business, or maybe they secretly hate making stuffed crust pizzas? Maybe it requires extra effort on their part? Maybe they didn’t have the vast amount of cheese on hand that is required to make one of these pies?

“Look, I already called that location and they told me to call you.”

“Sorry, you’re not in our delivery area.”

*click*

My only hope for clogging my arteries with pounds and pounds of cheese rested on the last location on Columbia Road. I explained to them that I was being given the run around by the other stores in the neighborhood and would they pulleeeeeez just deliver me a large pepperoni stuffed crust pizza?! I have the need for cheese! And grease! And pepperoni, all baked into one giant – “Sure, what’s your address?…OK, we’ll be there in about 45 minutes.”

In the end, the pizza gods intervened, and 45 minutes later I was stuffing my face with delicious pizza while my dog looked at me with drool running from her lips. Sorry, no cheese for you!

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs