I had always heard about Imo's, that fabled bastion of St. Louis pride, the crown jewel of Midwest pie. It had been described to me in tones of reverence — a thin, cracker-like crust, slathered in tangy sauce and smothered in the elusive Provel cheese. Provel, I had been warned, was an acquired taste, but I figured I was ready. After all, I’ve acquired many things over the years: a taste for oolong tea, a preference for pipe tobacco, a love of melancholy music. Surely, I could handle a regional delicacy.
I could not.
The pizza arrived looking innocent enough — a large, glistening wheel cut into squares, a St. Louis tradition that somehow makes pizza feel less communal and more like a math problem. The crust was thinner than I expected, practically a tortilla, and with the first bite, I knew I was in trouble. The crunch wasn’t the satisfying snap of a good thin crust — no, it was brittle, like biting into a stale cracker. Then came the sauce, which had a tartness that seemed determined to announce itself, uninvited, like a guest who won’t stop talking at dinner. And finally, the Provel — that waxy, gluey concoction that clung to the roof of my mouth like a regret I couldn’t swallow down fast enough.
I kept eating out of stubbornness — or maybe out of disbelief. Surely, this couldn’t be the Imo’s pizza I had heard so much about. I kept chewing, trying to make sense of the flavors. The Provel seemed determined to fuse my teeth together. The sauce, sharp and acidic, offered no comfort. The crust crumbled beneath it all, a foundation too weak to carry the weight of my disappointment.
By the third slice, I surrendered. Some things are just not for me, and that's alright. Taste is a strange thing — so personal, so fickle. I’m sure there are those who love Imo’s with a fierce devotion, who grew up with its oddities and wouldn’t trade it for the world. I respect that. Truly, I do.
But I can’t imagine a scenario where I voluntarily eat that pizza again. If I ever find myself craving a brittle cracker covered in cheese glue and acidic tomato sauce, I’ll know I’ve made some terrible life decisions.
For now, I’ll stick to what I know — doughy crusts, melted mozzarella, and the simple joy of a proper pizza. Some things are better left to the locals.