Woodstock’s Pizza knows how to work the system. It’s conveniently located across the way from the popular G Street Pub and can be accessed until 2 a.m. on a weekend night. And on these special nights, the smell of pizza wafts all the way across to the Ace Hardware parking lot, where drunken students stumble around like toddlers in a playpen. It’s awesome.
It’s kind of like that Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland where they tell you, “Do not look into the eyes of Mara.” DO NOT INHALE THE WHIFF OF WOODSTOCK’S. I openly admit that I do it every freaking time. And odds are you do, too.
If you inhale the whiff of Woodstock’s, you are destined to become one of the drunken undergrads jaywalking toward the pizza you are doomed to consume. The whiff is THAT powerful. In fact, I have a theory. Woodstock’s has installed large fans in secret locations on the restaurant’s roof to intensify the aroma. I have no proof of this other than my repeated drunk pizza-eating, so don’t take my word on that. But it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.
Don’t think sobriety can help you elude the curse either, because it won’t. Saturday night was a Woodstock’s milestone in my life. I soberly managed to eat more Woodstock’s than I had on the most belligerent of nights. One slice soon became two slices. That was only as an appetizer to my final order of an 8-inch CinnaBread pizza. I was on a roll. A cinnamon roll? Okay, that was lame.
Despite the well-deserved indigestion, my sober Woodstock’s visit had its perks. I was able to see UC Davis students in all their drunken glory. And man, were they glorious.
They lumbered in one by one. Or sometimes in packs, like zombies. Hungry zombies. Zombies that didn’t want to eat people, but cheese. And meat. And red sauce. When you really think about it, it’s almost just as gory.
I witnessed a girl trip over absolutely nothing and almost burst into tears when her pizza slice fell on its face. To be fair, I probably would have, too. But to be even fairer, I probably would have eaten it anyway.
Next, I watched a boy spit game at some girl while downing some Pepsi and his pepperoni. Unfortunately, the pizza grease was steadily dripping onto the front of his pants. And with that grease, any chances he had to impress her were dripping away, too.
The most entertaining aspect of being sober at a restaurant full of drunk people, however, is observing the people you know are going to hook up. There was a guy in line awkwardly rubbing a girl’s back while she was trying to order. I witnessed his hand slip to the butt a few times, but it was quickly removed and played off as an accident.
As the girl finished her order, the guy stepped in at the last minute and paid for her in his final attempt to seal the deal. Finally, they went to some not-so-intimate table (because nothing about Woodstock’s is intimate) to eat their pizza and probably confirm that they knew each other’s first names. I observed this mating ritual at least three times that night. All the more reason for the ladies to beware of the whiff.
All of this free entertainment may have you wondering why anyone should steer clear of Woodstock’s. The pizza is tasty, its location is prime and I like to think it’s reasonably priced. Well, I’m merely trying to spare you the despair of drunkenly dropping your food, grease-staining your pants, settling for some gross hook-up or clogging your arteries.
If you think you can handle these potential consequences, by all means, eat up! If not, beware the whiff and go pass out at home before something terrible happens to you.
AMANDA HARDWICK is never paying $9 to see a movie again, because she can just go to Woodstock’s for free. Wanna join? E-mail her at aghardwick@ucdavis.edu.
