Those of us who grew up on New York tend to be very particular about our pizza (and our bagels, and our Chinese food, and our street-vendor hot dogs, but right now I’m thinking about pizza).

You can get some good food in and around Philly, but I don’t remember particularly loving any Philadelphia pizza. It was real pizza, at least, and not that chain-restaurant approximation that most people call pizza, but it didn’t live up to New York City standards.

(Philadelphia pretzels, I must concede, are superior to New York pretzels. It’s strange to think that cold pretzels with mustard would be better than the hot-and-salty New York variety, but there it is.)

Anyway, I was very surprised to discover, some 15 years ago now, that there’s good pizza (and good bagels!?!) in central Virginia. Whodathunk.

So when, shortly after I’d moved down here, a woman drove up to me on the street, looking like she was going to ask me for directions (which I’m lousy at), I was relieved to hear her call out, “Excuse me! Can you tell me where I can some pizza?”

She had a couple of kids in the back seat.

I smiled with satisfaction and said, “You wanna know where you can get some really excellent pizza?”

And she looked disappointed. She now knew she’d asked the wrong guy. “No,” she said. “You know … pizza!”

I stared blankly.

“Pizza,” she said. “You know, like Dominoes or something.”

I’m afraid I was no help at all.