It genuinely boggles the mind that Chanello’s Pizza has managed to remain in business charging what they do for a pizza that tastes like it was assembled by someone who considers “pepperoni” a luxury ingredient.
Let’s start with the obvious: the price. A 14-inch Chanello’s pepperoni pizza is pushing $17, which is a remarkable amount of money to spend on something that inspires the emotional reaction of, “Well… I guess I’m eating this.”
For that kind of money, you could go to an actual local pizzeria that uses quality ingredients, makes a pizza worth getting excited about, and provides an experience that doesn’t leave you wondering whether you just financed somebody’s new boat.
And here’s the truly embarrassing comparison: Domino’s.
Yes. Domino’s.
I’m actually willing to go out on a limb and say a large Domino’s carryout special with pepperoni is a better pizza than a 14-inch Chanello’s pepperoni. Think about how catastrophic that is for Chanello’s. When Domino’s — the giant national pizza corporation that has spent decades perfecting the art of feeding people at 11:47 p.m. — is beating you on both price and pizza quality, maybe it’s time for a staff meeting.
And then there’s Little Caesars.
At least Little Caesars has the common decency to admit what it is. It’s inexpensive pizza. You walk in, hand over a reasonable amount of money, receive your pizza, and nobody pretends you’ve just purchased an artisanal culinary masterpiece.
Chanello’s, meanwhile, seems to have adopted the business model of:
“What if we charged premium prices for aggressively mediocre pizza?”
Genius.
The crust is another problem. Chanello’s crust has all the freshness and moisture of a cardboard box that has been sitting in the sun since Tuesday. And it seems to go stale ridiculously fast. You can practically hear it aging.
Domino’s crust holds up better. And again, I cannot emphasize this enough:
We are comparing Chanello’s to Domino’s.
The sauce is actually not bad. I’ll give them that. The pepperoni tastes decent too. But apparently Chanello’s believes that decent pepperoni becomes exponentially more impressive if you simply charge more for it.
Then we get to the great Chanello’s Pepperoni Mystery.
Apparently, some of their pepperoni pizzas contain three different kinds of pepperoni.
Three!
Three kinds!
You’d think you’d need a forensic investigator to figure out what happened.
Instead, you get a pizza where the pepperoni pieces are spaced out like they’re practicing social distancing. You look down at this 14-inch pizza and see these little curved pepperoni islands separated by several inches of empty cheese-covered real estate.
At this point, finding all three types of pepperoni becomes less of a dining experience and more of a Sherlock Holmes investigation.
“Elementary, my dear Watson. There appears to be another pepperoni somewhere beneath this cheese.”
Maybe it’s there. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe the third variety is metaphysical.
And seriously, what exactly is the appeal?
Do people really love those little curved pepperoni slices so much that they’ve formed an emotional attachment to Chanello’s? Is there some secret Chanello’s loyalty society that meets in a dark basement somewhere?
“Hello, my name is Steve.”
“Hi, Steve.”
“I’ve been ordering Chanello’s for 14 years.”
“And what do you like about it?”
“The pepperoni curves.”
“Powerful. Thank you for sharing.”
Maybe that’s it. Maybe people have simply been ordering Chanello’s for so long that they’ve forgotten there are other options. It’s not loyalty anymore. It’s a pizza Stockholm syndrome.
And I can’t imagine college students are keeping this operation afloat. College students have discovered the revolutionary concept of coupons and discounts. They’re going to Domino’s or Pizza Hut, finding some ridiculous deal, and stretching $12 into enough food to survive until Thursday.
Chanello’s walks in with a $17 pepperoni pizza like:
“Would you like to make that financially irresponsible?”
Congratulations, Chanello’s. Somehow you’ve built a sizable pizza operation while apparently convincing customers that mediocre pizza should be priced like a premium product.
Maybe that’s the real secret ingredient.
Not better dough.
Not better cheese.
Not better pepperoni.
Margins.
So here’s my challenge to the people who swear by Chanello’s:
Explain it to me.
What am I missing?
Is there a secret menu where the pizza suddenly becomes amazing? Does the delivery driver whisper the meaning of life when they hand you the box? Does the pepperoni start singing after midnight?
Because based on the pizza I’ve had, Chanello’s isn’t some hidden culinary gem.
It’s overpriced pizza wearing a local-pizzeria costume.
And honestly, if I’m going to spend $17 on a pizza, I want to feel like I spent $17 on a pizza.
Not like I spent $17 on a pizza that Domino’s could beat while simultaneously giving me a coupon.
So congratulations, Chanello’s.
You’ve accomplished something truly impressive:
You’ve managed to make Little Caesars look like the fiscally responsible option and Domino’s look like fine dining.
That’s not an easy accomplishment.
But Chanello’s has apparently found a way.
If you want, I can also make this even more savage and absurd, with more one-liners and increasingly ridiculous comparisons while keeping it believable as a real customer review.
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