When I was a little girl my parents would sometimes drive from Nashwauk to Hibbing on a weekend where they did grocery shopping. If we were lucky they would park in front of Sammy's on our way home. Then they sent me in to order a large sausage pizza.
I would stand at the counter and wait for it, watching the staff spin dough, ladle on sauce, dab on sausage, and slap on cheese. When our pizza was done, I would pay and carry it out to the car. I held the warm, aromatic paper package on my lap for 13 miles until we got home. But we couldn't eat it yet. Mom would say, "Let's warm it up in the oven." It was a long wait for a little girl.
Fifty years later I have eaten pizza in many different states, but I ALWAYS SAY, "It's not as good as SAMMY'S."