Pizza King Ding-A-Ling
“I never thought my dream man would be obsessed with driving to random pizza places just for a story.”
- My girlfriend after I told her what I was going to be doing one weekend.
I never thought I’d be anyone’s dream man, but I do seem to often find myself on pizza peregrinations. This trip wasn’t a case of curious fast food offerings like the McPizza one, though. Nor was it like that time I went in search of “NEWstalgia” from a Pizza Hut Classic. Rather, this one was purely Midwestern. Even the pizza style could be described as that. Some might call it “tavern style” or describe it as a take on “St. Louis style,” but I think “Midwestern” works best. Super thin crust cut into tiny squares under a mound of cheese and crumbled toppings. Midwestern style.
My buddy Jordan (who is known for many things, especially his Chick-Fil-A antics from this story) mentioned today’s subject while we were out walking our dogs one day. He described a pizza experience that would’ve gone well with the High Life I was hiding in the hand that wasn’t holding the leash.
“I went to this old-school Pizza King in Indiana the other day. Kind of place that was right up your alley. Had phones on the table for ordering.”
Sold.
The photos on Google Maps looked promising: a vintage vibe untouched in a small town. Not just something to photograph, but a place to experience, appreciate, and enjoy.
Friends and fellow photographers Travis, Phil, and Rob agreed to a Sunday morning date. Before we could load up the car for a jaunt over the state line, though, Rob bailed. Apparently, he’d fallen ill.
Still, a drive across the cold-as-shit brown landscape ensued—thankfully one under sunny skies instead of the gray ones that tend to characterize February in this part of the country. Eventually we reached the quaint Hoosier town of Connersville. A place I’d only passed through before in the middle of the night while riding Amtrak to Chicago from Cincinnati.
The building was emblazoned with “Pizza King,” but the deteriorating neon sign out front said “Mr. Pizza,” itself sitting above another decaying, yet straightforward sign which read: “Mexican Food.” I wasn’t sure if the placards were accurate, but they did confidently communicate that this place was going to be great.
Outside, men with plaid shirts tucked into their jeans puffed on electronic cigarettes beneath Oakley sunglasses—savoring their last hits of nicotine before joining their families inside along with the rest of the post-church crowd. We grabbed a booth amongst the cries of screaming children and polite conversation, setting our sights on the menu.
Pizza, pasta, salads, “Mexican Delights” and sandwiches resided above the “Whistle Wetters,” but the very bottom of the menu indicated that beer was only available at the other location across town. It also confirmed that our location was in fact (at least once called) “Mr. Pizza,” adhering to the roadside sign, but not at all jiving with the menu’s logo or the building’s facade.
Travis was nominated to place the order. Lifting the table-side phone from the receiver, he was immediately connected to the kitchen where he began reading off the list we’d composed in my notebook:
A 12” Royal Feast (no mushroom) Pizza
A 12” Taco Pizza
An order of Garlic Cheese Bread
An order of Bread Sticks
Two Diet Cokes
One Mello Yello
A side of Meat Sauce
A side of Hot Sauce
Phil and I listened intently as we heard things play out only from Travis’ end.
“Oh, it’s pre made that way?”
Much to my chagrin, I’d have to pick the mushrooms off of my slices squares.
Quickly, our order arrived thanks to the lone waitress who was expertly tending to the entire dining room.
The “Royal Feast” with its tiny sausage bits, gooey cheese, and sweet sauce was fantastic (once the mushrooms were disposed of), but the “Taco Pizza” stole the show. Even if most of the garnish tended to fall off as soon as you grabbed a piece. I’d say that the appetizers of bread sticks and cheese bread were “nothing special,” but they in fact were. The exact kind of food you’d expect, and desire, from a place such as this. Nothing less, nothing more. True Midwestern style.
After devouring everything on our table, Travis placed another call. We needed one more item to go, a souvenir to bring back for our sick friend, Rob. Whatever he was suffering from, we were confident that a “Cowboy Pizza” (a supreme pie loaded with extra toppings) was the cure.
While we waited for our takeout order, I chatted with our waitress—a longtime Pizza King veteran—about the place. Although this location had apparently opened in 1995, the “Ding-A-Ling” concept had already been in use at other locations.
“Maybe about five years ago” was when the ownership had replaced the original phones with some newer ones who’s cords weren’t permanently tangled and knotted in that weird, annoying way that phone cords used to suffer from.
The most economic way to maintain the novelty seemed to be a reflection of current times. In an era where landlines have become nearly obsolete, the only phones you can probably still buy in bulk are the styles you’d be more likely to find in an office or hotel room.
When I’d first looked up this place, the online photographs showed older telephones and a darker dining room. By the time of our arrival, it was clear some steps had been taken to update the restaurant. Thankfully, most of the charm remained and the “Ding-A-Ling” gimmick was firmly intact.
Not that any of that matters, folks were clearly coming for the food and camaraderie offered by their local mainstay. One man in a suit stopped by our table to share how his family comes every Sunday after services and then he recommend we try the “deep dish” style next time. Something I will absolutely do if I find myself in the friendly town of Connersville, Indiana again.
The history of Pizza King is a bit confusing. Growing up in the Cincinnati suburbs, I think I had the stuff on occasion, but not enough for to really remember. And if I ever ate inside as a kid, I certainly didn’t recall placing an order from a phone located at the table. A cool feature that I assume was implemented as a play on the order-by-phone-delivery craze of the 70s and 80s that eventually devolved chains like Pizza Hut from full-service restaurants to mostly carry-out only strip mall storefronts. Speaking with friends who grew up in Dayton, where the Pizza King name is far more prevalent, the “Ding-A-Ling” concept didn’t seem to (sorry about this pun) ring a bell. Apparently, it’s a more common phenomenon in the neighboring state of Indiana where the Pizza King brand is shrouded in a separate franchisee’s history.
Back in the car, we made for Rob’s house as the aroma of pizza permeated the interior all the way back to Cincinnati. Arriving at our indisposed friend’s residence, we suspiciously found no one home. Had Rob simply made an excuse to get out of the trip?
If he had, I was fully prepared to eat his pizza. We gave him the benefit of the doubt, however, and did our best to shove the pizza into his mail slot.
Rob has since made a full recovery and he too enjoyed the pizza.
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