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A pool, sauna or the sun quickly come to mind.
But I was at T-Jo’s Pizza on La Crosse’s North Side, working a three-hour shift with six of the restaurant’s finest employees — and a giant oven that radiates an inescapable heat.
“You think it’s hot down here, you should check out the hot box,” Jade Mahlum, who has worked at T-Jo’s since last year, told me shortly after I arrived Monday afternoon.
A few other names were mentioned for the small room where sandwiches are made, but we probably shouldn’t repeat them here.
I might have lost two pounds in there as Jade prepared a sub.
Jade went on to tell me how the room “really heats up” when owner Bill Palen cooks roast beef.
After nearly sweating through my shirt — always an attractive quality in a woman — I was quickly outfitted with a blue T-Jo’s shirt and cap.
Bill told me I’d need to change to be behind the counter.
Excited about my new uniform, I scurried to the bathroom, and in a moment’s time looked the part of an official pizza maker.
But somehow, I sensed something was missing from my fellow workers.
Luckily, Bill came to my rescue with a white apron, just like his other employees wear.
I proudly put it on, despite it adding another layer to my already warm waist.
“So,” Bill said, “you think you want to work in a pizza place?”
I immediately explained to him my lifelong goal of spending at least one day making pizzas.
I didn’t go into details, as Bill already was looking at me as if I were insane.
But I silently recalled my fond childhood memory of watching a man with a thick black moustache create tasty-looking pizzas at Happy Joe’s in Onalaska, Wis.
I thought about how I would eat pizza every day if I could — and how close I was to my dream.
My internal ramblings were interrupted when Bill asked whether I wanted to make dough.
It was my first official pizza duty.
After watching him make the first batch, it was my turn.
I poured yeast, salt, oil, water, sugar and flour into a mixer that looked like my KitchenAid at home, only about 20 times larger.
I turned it on, and the arm-size hook began kneading the ingredients.
“I’m making dough, I’m making dough,” I thought.
As the hook began clanking, Bill advised it was time to separate the thick dough and put it in containers to rise.
“So,” he asked again, “you REALLY want to work at a pizza place?”
“Do I!” I responded — again.
“Well, then, let’s make sauce,” he said.
We washed our hands and arms — up to our elbows — in warm water.
Three-month employee Carissa Nash told me to wash for 20 seconds, but I kept going for 40, just to make sure I was extra clean.
Bill kept his back toward me as he measured the spices, making sure to keep his recipe secret, even though my notebook wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Using a can opener, I opened the sauce’s tomato base and was instructed to empty the red contents into the spices Bill had measured.
Then came the mixing — with my arm as the utensil.
The sauce was cool and thick as I plunged in, feeling with my hand for spices along the bottom that needed to be distributed. I kept swirling my arm through the fragrant sauce, making sure it was well blended.
I like to think Bill was impressed with my hand-y work.
Soon it was time to prepare pizzas for a La Crosse Loggers home game.
T-Jo’s sends sausage, pepperoni and cheese pizzas to Copeland Park to be sold by the slice. I would be responsible for one of the sausage pies.
Rather than tossing the dough in the air as I’d envisioned, I was instructed to run it through what we’ll call a “crust preparer machine.”
The dough came out, smooth and lump-free, and I was careful not to feed my fingers through the machine in the process. I placed the dough on a round pizza cardboard and used a pizza cutter to trim it to size.
After a glance out T-Jo’s giant window on George Street, I scooped a ladle of the sauce I’d just prepared onto the extra large crust.
I swirled it around evenly.
Well, OK, I tried to swirl it around evenly. Amy Holland, who has worked at T-Jo’s for two years, had to help a little as the sauce migrated toward one side.
Even after watching the master, it took me substantially longer to apply sausage and cheese than Bill, a pizza-making speed demon. He claimed I’d be faster had I worked at T-Jo’s for 28 years as he had.
Point taken.
My remaining shift was spent putting the slices into small triangle boxes that Bill took to the Loggers game.
I followed the employees around, asked lots of questions and made another sausage pizza.
It was a dream come true, and a most enjoyable three hours.
Besides, after you’ve stood by a million-degree oven, 98 degrees actually felt good.
Autumn Grooms can be reached at (608) 791-8424 or agrooms@lacrossetribune.com.
