My name is Paul, and I am the pizza rat.

Look, here’s the thing. I’ve lived in the East Village my whole life (four months), behind the Papaya Dog on Fourteenth, so I’ve seen a few things. I’ve been around the block—literally, I’ve been around that block between Thirteenth and Fourteenth Streets between First Avenue and A twice. It takes a long-ass time.

Everyone knows my neighborhood has the highest concentration of decent food in this city. I’ve got cousins over near N.Y.U., and they say St. Mark’s Place has great Japanese, but that ain’t my speed. I’d been hearing about the First Avenue Pizza Gauntlet ever since my ear canals opened up, two weeks after I was born in the tunnel under the East River. I came here for the pizza.

First of all, you can forget about Artichoke Basille’s—the pizza there might actually be worse than that Famous 99 Cent crap. Just don’t even bother. Looking south from Fourteenth, you have Vinny Vincenz on your right. Vinny’s is unbeatable in every way, from the tin walls to the hand-painted wooden sign. Also, it serves beer, which means increased potential for dropped slices. To your left, there’s Joey Pepperoni. It’s a real budget joint: dollar slices, combos with soda, that kinda thing.

If you have the cojones to cross Thirteenth Street, you’ll be rewarded with Luzzo’s and Papa John’s on opposite sides of the street. Luzzo’s oven is coal-fired, but lemme tell you, from where I’m crouching, the whole crust mania is getting old. Plus, everyone takes his leftovers home in a box, loudly saying he’ll eat it for lunch the next day, but everyone ends up scarfing it before bed. I’ve had way more luck over the last few weeks with Papa John’s, because nobody walks in off the street to buy those slices.

Finally, tucked away on Twelfth Street you have Motorino—this is the real deal. It’s the kind of place where, if you take a lady rat, the staff will suggest a fizzy-red-wine pairing. My uncle Louie swears his big brother Joe made off with an entire soppressata pie one time back in 2012. (I’m skeptical, but with those full windows that open onto the street, there is easy access.)

You know what never happens, though? Ever? No human in the history of New York has ever thrown away a fully intact, unblemished plain slice. Any old rat can nab a crust, sure—that’s easy. And plenty of drunk idiots have left whole globs of mozzarella and mushroom and pepperoni in their wake as they made their way home from the bar. Did you know that some people don’t even use the plates?

Anyway, this afternoon, there I was, minding my own business, when I caught a glimpse of the Holy Grail: a perfect isosceles triangle, gilded in golden grease, and slightly congealed. I could tell it was from Vinny’s—I can smell that sauce from ten feet away. You already know what happened next, because it’s all over the goddam news. I did what any self-respecting New Yorker would do: I grabbed that pizza like I’d paid for it and I kept walking, real casual-like, making a beeline for the nearest cover—the L-train stop at First Avenue and Fourteenth Street.

It was there that some dude whipped out his iPhone and started filming me and told me to “live my best life.” I tried running but I was FREAKED OUT and lost my grip and dropped the slice. It was a monumental loss. But what could I do? I played it cool and strolled away, hoping no one would notice. It turns out everyone noticed. Some things are too good to be true.