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| - I would like to apologize in advance. I have not been to Danny's for over 25 years. I don't live there anymore and am giving it 5 stars because of my memories of the place. Between delivering the Pittsburgh Press ,when it cost 67 cents a week, and my stint in the Navy, Danny's was my place of employment. I can't remember how long I worked there. Here is how I remember it: (engage dream sequence here........)
I made hoagies at Danny's. It was a while back. I was 16, I'm knocking on 60 now.
The pizzas were made by the full time employees who were all old Italian men. Quite elderly, I am guessing in their 40s . Evidently, they were old family friends of Danny, the owner, who was probably about 30 or 40.
The hoagies were made by the high-school boys; never saw any girls working there. Pay was $1 per hour during the first week, while you were in "training". The second week, pay went up to $1.25, and stayed there, forever. You had to punch out at the time clock for your daily 15 minute break. You got a free pop for your break. NO food.
Saturday was prep day, the day for making a weeks worth of hoagies. Danny's mother worked that day with two selected boys. It was not perceived as an honor and we were not permitted to speak during the operation.
The construction sequence was:
3 of number 1; 2 of number 2; 3 of number 3; 2 of number 4. Allow me to explain. That is 4 different meats, how many slices of each, and the order they were applied to the just sliced hoagie bun.
The bun was rejoined with its other half, installed in a plastic sleeve, twist tied and immediately frozen, to be extracted on a daily basis for the expected demand.
The hoagies were cooked after they were ordered. We opened the bag, opened the roll, squirted some oil/seasoning on the bun, slide them into the oven. They were done when the edges started to blacken. The only option was indicated on the order ticket "no number meant no onions", or "with a number 9, slap on the onions".
When things got slow, they sent us out in the parking lot , where everyone ate in their car, to pick up trash. The acceptable and expected way to discard your pizza box, papers, cups, ice and everything else you wanted to get rid of was to simply open your car window and push the mountain of trash through to the ground for us ciggy smoking, pimply teen boys to pick up. No one was expected to get out of their car to place their stuff in a trash can, and no one ever did. After the lot was "redd up" (Pittsburgh English) , we returned to the establishment to construct more hoagies.
At the end of the night, if there was left over pizza, you could take some home. At first, my family would gobble it up. It was quite good. After a few weeks, though, everyone quit eating it.
I always smelled like onions in high school.
There was an old pizza maker there; I think his name was Frank. He had a lisp and it was torture for him to call out the order numbers to the customers when their food was ready. We used to laugh ourselves silly when he had to call out "sixes". He had number "666" one time; we almost had teenage coronaries on that one.
He made good pizzas, worked hard and we were a bunch of non sympathetic, unfeeling teenagers. Sorry, Frank.
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