Growing Up A Mok: CiCi's

Whenever I'm with a group of people who can't decide where to go for their next meal, I typically suggest CiCi's.  But the idea is almost always immediately vetoed, and I'm left wondering why with tears streaming down my face

For those living under a rock, CiCi's is an all-you-can-eat pizza joint that has somehow developed a bad rep.  They serve other stuff too, like salads and soups and pastas, but only weird people put that stuff on their plates.  Going to CiCi's and eating something other than pizza is like... going to a pizza joint and eating something other than pizza.  There's absolutely no justification.

But I'm biased towards CiCi's, of course.  I grew up on that glorious buffet line.  You can ask my sister or brother -- if we heard we were going out to eat, we would get hyped... until we'd ask my dad where we were headed, and his response would predictably be the same.

"Chinese restaurant."

We'd wail and we'd whine, but an hour later, we'd be spinning a lazy Susan at one of three restaurants our family would cycle through.  It got to a point where my brother hated Chinese food.  Actually, maybe he still does, and that's why he lives in Chicago now.

Then my parents discovered CiCi's.  And everything changed.

I'm still not sure how it happened.  I'm guessing they caught a fateful CiCi's TV commercial that detailed the kids' special price of $1.99, and their eyes naturally lit up like a Christmas tree.

That tiny human price was supposed to cover children ages 10 and younger, so my parents snuck us all in there with a slouch until we were at least 12, possibly even 13.  I specifically remember the cashier giving me some side-eye one of the final times my parents risked getting blacklisted from the greatest pizza place in the world, but what were his options?  Was he gonna card me?  Ask my parents for a birth certificate?

Another time I was so anxious to burst into the restaurant that I exited the car a couple seconds prior to my dad pulling into the parking spot.  But my dad was also so anxious to burst into the restaurant that he didn't register my calls of distress after he had parked the car on my foot.  He was halfway to the entrance before he finally understood my screams.

Aside from the bargain basement cost of entry, let's talk about the pizza for a second.  They offer a plethora of options sitting out ready for consumption; from the classics (cheese, pepperoni, sausage) to the specialties (taco, barbecue, chocolate), there's a flavor for every type of palate.

You know that feeling when you pay for one package of Reese's peanut butter cups from a vending machine but two drop down?  This part is kinda like that.  Not only is CiCi's already scrumptious with the endless supply of pizza, but they will build and cook you ANY PIZZA YOUR HEART DESIRES.

I thought there was a catch at first.  But next thing I knew, my mom had ordered a spinach and pineapple pizza, and our lives were never the same.

You can hate on CiCi's all you want, but one thing is undeniable: nobody makes a better spinach pizza.  It may sound bizarre, but add pineapples to it, and your taste buds will do a happy dance.  As I've grown older, I've added Italian sausage to the mix, so now every food group is covered.

But some things don't change, like my habit of piling up the uneaten pizza crusts like carb-loaded trophies in order to keep count of how many slices I've scarfed down.  Every visit to this legendary restaurant has a built-in eating contest added to the experience.

And perhaps now you understand why it's 2016 and my siblings and I are still celebrating birthdays and anniversaries and other momentous occasions at CiCi's.  And perhaps still sneaking Sprite into the water cups.

Growing Up A Mok: BELUGA

I had an epiphany the other day.  I realized that I've been a sports fanatic for over 20 years, and those west coast games are still too late.  They tip off somewhere in the vicinity of 9:30 PM and just seem to last forever.  That's two decades of staying up way past my bedtime to support my team to victory.  Story of my life, you could say.

When I was a wee lad, I had this handheld radio that I would turn way down and put underneath my pillow.  My parents would come upstairs to make sure my siblings and I were all tucked in and asleep, and I would have my eyes closed but my ears tuned in to the basketball game.  I always knew the next day would be miserable with so little shut-eye, but I was committed -- I couldn't take a play off.

Sometimes I'd be bolder and wait until my parents went to sleep to try to sneak downstairs to the living room to turn on the TV.  I'd tiptoe down the stairs, careful to avoid the ones that creaked.  It was super suspenseful since my dad heard absolutely every sound back then.

I would reach the TV and angle it away from the direction of my parents' bedroom to minimize the light.  It was pitch black in the room, but I had that remote control memorized better than my phone number.  I'd hit the power button, followed immediately by the mute button.  Then I'd take a quick five second delay to look for any movement from the parents.  After that, the coast was clear, so I'd let a tiny smile escape and watch the Seattle SuperSonics crush the Houston Rockets and all my hopes and dreams.

I managed a 75% success rate.  On the times that I failed, I'd be focused on watching Detlef Schrempf sink another bucket, and then my heart would skip a startled beat as my dad would suddenly be four feet behind me saying one single word: "JONATHAN."

That's all it took.  One word, and I'd turn off the TV, mutter good night, slink back upstairs, crawl into bed... and turn the radio back on.  I mean, what else could I do at that point?

As luck would have it, my family moved to another house a few years later.  It was just like the previous one, with all three of the kids' bedrooms upstairs, but with one essential addition: an upstairs game room.  And we got a TV in there.

Oh, boy.  What a time to be alive.  But I started getting cocky and wouldn't leave the games on mute.  I wanted to hear the crowd ooh and ahh after a beautiful Dream Shake.  I wanted to feel the crowd silenced after a dagger jumper.  I wanted to get the full experience... especially since I was sacrificing some much-needed sleep for it.

My success rate at getting away with it increased slightly.  Either I was way too immersed in the basketball game or my dad was way too much of a ninja, but he'd still make me jump with his patented "JONATHAN."

Then it clicked.  Why did God bless me with younger siblings if not to be lookouts?  So we talked it over and came up with a code word: "BELUGA."  For the life of me, I can't recall how we came up with this word other than it sounding funny, but it sure worked.

My brother's room was the closest to the stairs, and when he'd hear footsteps, he'd let out a quick "BELUGA," which gave me plenty of time to turn off the TV and slide back into bed.  Little did we know at the time, but this system of ours would also reap large dividends when it came to fruit.

You see, my mom never thought we ate enough fruit.  It was probably true, but she would overcompensate by preparing three servings for each of us at a time.  I swear her life calling is to prevent any of us from contracting scurvy.

By now, you probably know how my dad always lied about the "Is this new" question, but with my mom, her pants-on-fire Achilles heel was the "Is this one fruit" question.  She'd always try to convince me that yes, this overflowing bowl stacked with oranges did indeed come from one single orange.  I'd try to test the theory by putting the orange pieces back together like Legos, but not once did it ever fit.

Some teenagers rebel by smoking or drinking.  Me?  I did the more sensible thing.  I rebelled by throwing orange slices off my brother's balcony into the empty lot adjacent to our house.  Yes, it was wasteful, but man, I really didn't feel like eating three oranges in one sitting every night.

Thanks in large part to the "BELUGA" call, the balcony had a 100% success rate, and chunking all that fruit built up my arm strength, so win-win.  A couple years ago, I came clean to my mother about the gravity-defying produce, and she was appalled, but (I think) she was eventually able to laugh it off.

Oh, but my parents don't know about the "BELUGA" thing yet, so if y'all could do me a solid and keep that on the down-low, my siblings and I would truly appreciate it.  Never know when it might come in handy again.  And now there's a lake behind their house, so the balcony Hail Marys will end up feeding whatever river monster lies beneath the surface.  Ugh, water sucks.