The stroller brigade steamed down Randolph Avenue towards Carbone’s pizza. Three families moved in unison down the sidewalk, all pushing strollers and kids on bikes. As I stood at the restaurant’s entrance, I nervously watched as they dismounted and lined up their rigs right outside the front door. My son and I stepped aside-we are not locals and gladly ceded the right of way. The three families piled in to the popular Mac Groveland restaurant, commandeered three back booths, and proceeded to gloriously get their grub on.

My friend Chris Clayton, a proud St. Paul resident, recommended that I take my son to Carbone’s because it was “Grease-tastic!” Metro magazine had recently reviewed almost every pizza place in the Twin Cities and Chris had personally devoured an endless pile of premium pizza pie.

“Don’t be fooled by the imitators,” Chris said, “The Carbone’s on Randolph is the original. And acts like it.”

Murphy and I took a corner booth. The décor of Carbone’s seemingly hadn’t changed since 1962 when the place opened. Wood paneling adorned the walls, leather booths rimmed the entire place, and a giant wagon wheel clock hung above the wait station. And the atmosphere was as understated as the furnishings: old Irish looking dudes with silver flat tops hunched over meat ball subs; a pair of teenagers – clearly sent by their parents - slumped on a short bench waiting for their take-out; and several babies were stuffed into high chairs at the end of the booths. In essence, it was classic St. Paul: no fuss and hang your hat up on a hook before you eat.

Our pizza arrived on a sheet of wax butcher paper and was served on a cafeteria tray. There was no fat doughy crust on the outer edge and it made the pizza look like an infinity pool made of cheese and sauce. The pizza was cut into tiny little squares. This, to a five year old, was hilarious.

“Oh, man. Squares!” Murphy gushed.

I can’t begin to describe to you how awesome the original Carbone’s pizza was. Now, I am by no means a food critic. Heck, I even suffer from Crohn’s disease, a digestive disorder in the lower intestines, and normally hate food. But I will say this about Carbone’s pizza: I couldn’t stop eating it. Using a fork, I popped the small cheesy squares into my mouth at a pace that rivaled those hot dog eating competitions. At one point, I totally abandoned all parental responsibility and forgoed sharing the pizza with my son. One after the other, the tiny pizza squares were grotesquely shoveled into my mouth. Meanwhile, Murphy ate his pizza like a civilized human being.

At the end of the meal, one of adults from the stroller brigade got up, and put a few quarters in the jukebox. Seconds later, the classic Rolling Stone’s song “Angie” played over the warbley sound system. It was one of those small moments in the day, where everything seemed right in the world. I looked over at my son who was enthusiastically sipping his root beer. It was a moment when all the pieces seemed to fit.

More importantly, though. At Carbone’s, all the pieces seemed to fit in my mouth.