To Gullivers, I say: Thanks for 50 years of pizza, chicken wings, garbage salad, broasted chicken, and red wine.

I did a quick calculation: Mom mad at me—or pizza? What the hell. I got in [READER]( Almost 50 years have passed, but I still remember the particulars . . . It was a Saturday night—September, 1972. I was a 16-year-old senior at Evanston High School. The boys and I had spent the evening at the Valencia—a theater demolished years ago—watching The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight. It was 10, maybe 10:30. We were standing on Sherman, wondering what to do next. A car pulled up. The window rolled down. It was Schwage. “Hey, guys, like the car?” he said. “Not too cool.” That was Schwage’s favorite line. He said it all the time. Emphasis on the word too. So it came out—“Not TOO cool.” Schwage was a friend of my friends. About 20—which seemed ancient back then. I thought it was weird that a guy that “old” would want to hang out with high schoolers. He said, “Let’s grab a pizza.” My friend hopped into his car. But I hesitated. My mother ran a tight ship. Curfew was 11:30. If I got into that car, I’d be late—no doubt about it. “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll walk home.” “C’mon, Benny,” my friends said. “Don’t be a wimp. We’re just getting pizza.” You must understand. I love pizza. Always have. Always will. I did a quick calculation: Mom mad at me—or pizza? What the hell. I got in, and away we went. Living in the fast lane. Schwage drove west to Dodge, then south to Howard. And that’s how I discovered a restaurant called Gullivers. We ordered the pizza in the pan, which I’d never had before. I took that first bite and, man, it was like that moment in Ain’t No Mountain High Enough. Diana Ross version—not Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. The part near the end. Where the orchestration builds to a crescendo and here comes Diana Ross, singing her heart out. “Ain’t no mountain high enough . . .” That’s what it was like biting that first bite. So chewy and cheesy. So piping hot. The crust—like a pie. A quasi-religious experience. Like Diana Ross herself burst into that dining room. By the time I got home, it was well after midnight. Pacing the house in her bathrobe was my mom—one step away from hopping into her own car in search of her wayward son. “Mom, I know you’re mad,” I said. “But this pizza—oh, my God, you gotta try this pizza!” Thus began my nearly 50-year food affair with Gullivers. An affair that would have lasted for the rest of my life, had Gullivers not closed last week. A victim, in part, of COVID. I know, it’s oddly indulgent for me to mourn the end of a restaurant, what with all the carnage and heartache in the world. So think of this as a parable about the randomness and unpredictability of life. Over the years, I’ve been to Gullivers hundreds of times. Took my wife there when we were courting. Took her family when they came to town. Took our kids. And our kids’ friends. I swear—at one time or another, I’ve taken half the millennials in Chicago to Gullivers. And, yes, I eventually took my mom—and she loved it. Yet, for all the meals I’ve consumed there, I might never have even known about it, had I not hopped into the car of Schwage—a guy I barely knew and never saw again. To Gullivers, I say: Thanks for 50 years of pizza, chicken wings, garbage salad, broasted chicken, and red wine. And to Schwage, whoever you have become and wherever you may be . . . “Not TOO cool!” 🏆 [Final voting for Best of Chicago has begun!]( Are you ready to vote for your faves? You've got until February 2! 📨 [Sign up for updates so you don’t miss out on celebrating the things you love]( in the city you love with the Reader! Les Grobstein died on Sunday at age 69. Twenty-five years ago, I had a blast, hanging with him and writing [this profile](. A classic Chicago character. RIP, Les. Derek B. Miller’s novel, [How to Find Your Way in the Dark](. It’s a mystery, a romance, a coming-of-age tale, a thriller, and more. Love it! 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