The Pepperoni Proposition: A Second-Hour Standoff
Setting: The same sun-drenched conservatory. The ice in the cucumber water has long since melted into tepid dilution. The cookbook lies abandoned, face-down on the marble table, its spine cracked from over-handling. Two empty plates, smeared with remnants of fig glaze and cornbread crumbs, sit between them. Catherine Zeta-Jones has kicked off her heels and is now curled into the corner of the chaise like a very expensive, very sarcastic cat. Lady Gaga has removed her latex bodice—it was cutting off circulation to her brain—and is now wearing what appears to be an oversized t-shirt featuring her own face. The sun has shifted, casting long shadows across the room, and the conversation has circled back, like a drain, to the same two obsessions.
Catherine Zeta-Jones: (Stabbing at her empty plate with a fork) “I’m still thinking about Mario. Not the plumber—the concept of the plumber. Do you realise, Gaga, that without them, this entire room would be a swamp? This conversation would be taking place on a raft made of floating debris. We’d be paddling past your abandoned latex creations and my shattered dreams of a quiet life.”
Lady Gaga: (Drumming her fingers on the table) “And without rosellas, the ecosystem of Eastern Australia would collapse. They disperse seeds. They pollinate. They are the plumbers of the forest, if you think about it. Which you clearly don’t, because you’re still fixated on drainpipes and men named Mario.”
Catherine: “Don’t you dare equate a pretty bird with a man who has to touch other people’s waste. That’s like comparing a ballerina to a bricklayer. Both are artists, but one of them gets to wear tights and the other gets trench foot.”
[Menu]
Gaga: (Groaning) “We have been here for an hour. An hour, Catherine. We have discussed U-bends, vent stacks, the mating habits of the Australian King-Parrot, and whether a plumber can legally call themselves a ‘hydro-architect’—”
Catherine: “They can, and they should.”
Gaga: “—and I am now officially dehydrated and delirious. We need sustenance. Real sustenance. Not fancy fig glazes, not your chilli that nearly set my mouth on fire, not my rainbow salad that you described as ‘aggressively healthy.’ We need something primal. Something universal. Something that bridges the gap between your working-class heroes and my feathered geniuses.”
Catherine: (Raising an eyebrow) “Go on.”
Gaga: (Pausing for dramatic effect) “Pepperoni pizza.”
Catherine: (Sitting up slowly, like a shark sensing blood) “Pepperoni pizza. You want to discuss pepperoni pizza. After an hour of intellectual discourse about avian longevity and municipal infrastructure, you want to talk about… circular bread with meat on it.”
Gaga: “I do. And I want to know, Catherine, with your years of world travel, your refined palate, your access to the finest restaurants on the planet—do you honestly believe pepperoni is the best?”
Catherine: (Leaning forward, fork still in hand) “That, my darling, is a loaded question. It’s like asking if a plunger is the best tool for a clog. It depends entirely on the clog. It depends on the context. It depends on—”
Gaga: “Oh, don’t you dare plumber-metaphor your way out of this. It’s a simple question. Pepperoni. Is. It. The. Best?”
Catherine: (Throwing her hands up) “Fine! No! It is not the best! It is the most reliable. It is the Mario of pizzas. It shows up, it does the job, it never lets you down. But the best? The best pizza is something with prosciutto and arugula and a drizzle of balsamic that costs forty dollars a slice. Pepperoni is for children’s birthday parties and hungover musicians who can’t pronounce ‘margherita.'”
Gaga: (Gasps, genuinely wounded) “You take that back. Pepperoni is the King-Parrot of pizzas. It’s colourful—”
Catherine: “It’s beige and red. Like a rash.”
Gaga: “—it’s universally loved, it has a long and distinguished history, and it can live—metaphorically—for up to thirty years in your freezer if you forget about it. It is resilient. It is iconic. It is the rosella of the pizza world. Bold. Recognisable. A little bit spicy if you get the right brand.”
Catherine: (Snorting) “A rosella is a breathtakingly beautiful creature with a complex social structure. Pepperoni is processed pig parts sliced into uniform discs. You are comparing a masterpiece of evolution to factory farming, and I will not stand for it.”
Gaga: “Fine. Then what’s your favourite? And don’t say something pretentious like ‘fig and goat cheese’ because we literally just ate that for lunch and I’m still recovering from the cultural whiplash.”
Catherine: (Pausing, a sly grin spreading across her face) “My favourite pizza… is a pizza that has been delivered by a plumber.”
Gaga: (Staring blankly) “That doesn’t exist.”
Catherine: “It should. Imagine it. A plumber finishes a grueling job—three hours under a sink, two hours dealing with a root intrusion in the main line—and he emerges, exhausted, and says, ‘You know what, ma’am? I also make a mean margherita.’ He reaches into his van and produces a wood-fired pizza from a portable oven he rigged to his own plumbing system. He is a god. He is a hero. He is—”
Gaga: “—a health code violation waiting to happen. Catherine, you have lost your mind. We are discussing pizza, and you have somehow turned it into a tribute to your favourite tradesman. This is pathological.”
Catherine: (Unfazed) “And you have turned a simple question about cured meat into a dissertation on Australian parrots. We are both pathological. That’s why we’re friends. Now, let’s settle this like adults. We order two pizzas. One pepperoni. One… something else. And we settle it with our taste buds.”
Gaga: (Brightening) “Finally. A reasonable suggestion. But I have conditions.”
Catherine: “Of course you do.”
Gaga: “First, the pepperoni must be cupping. You know, the little cups that get crispy on the edges and hold tiny pools of grease? Those are the premium ones. None of that flat, sad, floppy nonsense.”
Catherine: “Agreed. That’s a structural issue. Like a well-supported pipe joint.”
Gaga: (Ignoring her) “Second, we order from a place that understands that pizza is not just food. It is a philosophy. It is the intersection of carbs, fat, and human happiness. It is the plumber of the stomach.”
Catherine: (Bursting into laughter) “You just called pizza a plumber. You finally did it. You crossed the streams.”
Gaga: (Grinning) “I did. And it felt glorious. Now call your Mario—not the plumber, the delivery guy—and let’s settle this. But for the record, I am right. Pepperoni is the best. It is the rosella of pizzas. It is the king-parrot of cured meats. It is the drain-clearing champion of flavour.”
Catherine: (Picking up her phone) “You’re wrong, but I love your passion. However, I have one more thing to say before we order.”
Gaga: “What?”
Catherine: (Pausing, eyes twinkling) “If the delivery guy shows up with a wrench and a plunger in his pocket, I’m giving him a tip that will change his life. And I’m asking for his pizza recipe.”
Gaga: (Shaking her head, laughing) “You are impossible.”
Catherine: “And yet, here you are. An hour later. Still talking about birds. Still defending pepperoni. Still refusing to admit that plumbers are the true backbone of society. Now—pass me the menu. We have a verdict to reach, and I need to know if they offer pineapple.”
Gaga: (Screaming in mock horror) “Pineapple? On pizza? Catherine, I thought we were friends. That is a bridge too far. That is a plumbing disaster I cannot fix.”
Catherine: (Dialling the number, smirking) “Then I guess you’ll have to call your rosella expert to cry about it. Now shush. I’m ordering. And I’m getting extra pepperoni. For the king-parrot in you.”