Yay, birthday party pizza! Which I think is where most of the children of Montclair were indoctrinated by Mr. Dino to enjoy his rather pedestrian pies. It’s unclear if there’s something actually in the dough that drives addiction from a young age, or if it’s just some weird memory trick, but I’ve only met 2.5 adults over the years who count Mr. Dino’s as their pizza go-to. Nope, it’s only children, and their general lack of fully functioning taste buds who request to be taken to this joint.
And, look, I’m not trying to besmirch this place. The kid’s birthday party pizza joint has its place in society. Even if Mr. Dino is clearly an evil cult leader dead set on glamouring the youngsters into his pepperoni army of the willing. The thing is, as an adult, I am less susceptible to this phenomena. To his wiles. Because this pizza is just mid. Or — and hang with me here — the same way the children continue to have a nostalgia for the pizza they ate the YMCA and every karate party growing up, we parents have a special bias against it because we watched those grubby little hands grab at the paper plates full of cold slices of Mr. Dino’s for years. And only got the dregs after the children had their way with it. At the ice rink. At the gymnastics gym. At the place where all the girls dress up as princesses for some reason. So their biases and our biases are are at odds.
So, what I really need is to find a person who grew up in Montclair, went to parties as a child, never moved away and eventually had kids who went to parties in town where Mr. Dino’s was inevitably served. I imagine these people exist. And I would be willing to bet they don’t get their pies from Mr. Dino. The restaurant has been around since 1981, and I think has been under the same ownership for its lifespan, but at a soccer gathering with Hipster Jr. Jr.’s team there several years ago, I got the sense the older gentleman behind the counter was ready to hang it up. Yes, our group was probably a pain, but it felt like the whole ordering food thing was annoying to him and he’d rather be home in his recliner watching harness racing or some black and white, bare-knuckle fight between two white guys in burlap shorts. I get it; I’m like that at work sometimes too. But this is all to say that the food — especially the stuff that wasn’t pizza — felt tired. One can’t live on nostalgia and children’s bad taste alone, I guess.
119 Watchung Ave. – Montclair
973/783-7110
mrdinospizza.com
