OUR STORY

THE STRANGE, SAD TALE OF PETE ZIMICCI

On a stormy night in the autumn of 1917, the Zimicci family fled Sicily on the steamship Al Dente before arriving in Kansas City Harbor. The refugee Zimiccis started a new life in America, pursuing the American dream, and yada yada yada bullshit backstory, in 1983, a real prick of a kid named Pete Zimicci was born.

After an early life filled with petty crime, Pete was forced to leave town after double-crossing a cheesemonger with connections to the mafia. Living on the lam, Pete changed his name to the far less Italian-sounding James Montalbano while he migrated west, eventually cooling his heels in the temperate climate of the San Fernando Valley.

In 2015, James started PIZZAMICI on paper in a drunken stupor in a desperate bid to reduce his tax burden. It didn’t work, and the resulting IRS audit forced James to a crossroads: either admit to tax fraud and face prison, or lean in to the grift, make it a reality, and actually start a pizzeria.

The answer being obvious, PIZZAMICI was officially born.

Not knowing the first thing about how to make pizza, James enrolled in a one-week immersive pizzamaking course at Trump University. After receiving a world-class education, he passed with flying colors, having made Dean’s List faster than any graduate before or since. His invaluable Trump University diploma now in hand, James wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.

Ever since the audit’s completion, James and his underpaid, overworked staff at PIZZAMICI have been making pizzas for dozens of people from sea to rising sea.

[sighs] Please clap.