Growing up in Queens, NY, in an Italian-American family, pizza was – and continues to be – an undeniable staple in my diet. Sunday dinners usually had a box from L&B Spumoni Gardens in appetizer attendance, nestled next to the caprese and bruschetta while we waited to get our mangia on. When we moved to Virginia, we made it our unspoken mission to find the best pizza places in the DMV area, sometimes taking on hour-long commutes in the quest to satisfy the desire for a decent bite.

On a 2013 pilgrimage to Italy, I had a pizza experience so divine it resulted in a full-blown weeping-woman episode in the shadow of the Vatican. So needless to say, my love of pizza runs as deep as a pie from Giordano’s, and my palette craves the authenticity of Via Napoli. When I moved to Florida in 2015, any hopes I had in finding a decent, affordable pizza joint were slim to none, and slim had just slipped out the back to catch a flight to Italy for some more pizza.

Enter LAZY MOON.

Introduced on a nonchalant outing with my then-boy-now-boyfriend person, Lazy Moon was the consolation plan after his extended lab at UCF ruined our itinerary for making rounds at EPCOT. With my goal to charm him with my inability to hold my tequila in Mexico out the window, I figured I would have to make do with strings of mozzarella hanging off my chin. When I asked if he had ever been before, he shrugged, said he’d seen or heard something at campus about it being good. Considering the man lives off a routine diet of chicken and rice, I wasn’t expecting much when we pulled up into the parking lot with the nondescript store front. My expectations sank a little lower, and I tried to calculate if we could still make it with time to spare before Illuminations if I scrounged around the bottom of my purse for change for 417.

But when he opened the door for me, I knew it wasn’t just his chivalry that made my knees go weak. The unmistakable smell of dough rising – good, hearty, proper yeast – was heady. I could practically taste the oregano, basil, and olive oil being generously distributed over a layer of ruby red sauce by a gangly guy in a beanie behind the counter. The pie he was working on prepping for the oven was huge, and I remember thinking it must’ve been for some kind of special order, because I had never before seen a pizza of that enormity for any other reason. A bocce lane ran along the side of the restaurant, high tops and long tables strategically placed around to maximize the space. One wall covered in herb planters brought a bright, fresh vibe that you never would have guessed from the outside front. And on every table, the holy trinity of pizza condiments: Parmesan, garlic salt, and red pepper flake shakers.

My then-boy-now-boyfriend asked if I knew what I wanted, and I realized I’d been so busy with sensory overload processing, I hadn’t even looked at the menu. It hung from a giant poster above the length of the bar that tripled as the register, order pick-up, and prep station for the pizza. Customers could watch as dough was hand-rolled into patches of flour, then put through gravity defying exercises of stretching into perfect circles. Circles – I quickly noticed – that were all the same size as the pie from before that was now getting tossed into the slit of the oven on a wooden paddle that was almost 3 feet wide.

That’s when I saw on the menu, nestled between a minimalistic-design list of oddly named specials and cheap cheap cheap pricing, the triangle outline of the slice-o-meter. Easily the length of the top of my head to my chest, a snarky PRETTY MUCH ACTUAL SIZE was smacked on top of the outline, and I realized I was probably about to revolutionize my usual order of two slices, one sprite.

I could honestly write a whole separate article on the experience of what taking that first bite was like, but in short, it definitely cemented Lazy Moon as a gastronomic landmark in my journey of calling Orlando “home.” Since that evening at UCF, I’ve not only been enjoying expanding the relationship with then-boy-now-boyfriend, but my relationship with the Lazy Moon menu has covered a decent amount of ground as well. I’m still preferential to the classic cheese, but 10/10 recommend asking your waiter/waitress about the Honey Bears scattered around the restaurant, and giving it a go. Also, definitely switch it up every once in awhile with one of the calzones – they use the same amazing dough that they use for the pizza; just the right amount of outside crispiness, and just the right amount of inside chewiness. They’ve got the sauce to cheese ratio practically down to a science, and the marinara dip makes me cry after a couple of Funky Buddhas.

I’ve since switched from frequenting their original UCF location to their newest opening in the Mills 50 district, but only because less gas money means more pizza money. While it may not be run by a team of elderly Sicilian gentlemen kneading out dough in wife-beaters and gold-chained crucifixes, Lazy Moon definitely captures the nostalgic taste of my childhood. Whether they’re catering to the brokeassness of Orlando college students, folks that need a no-pressure Tinder date, or parents that need a table – and a meal – big enough for the whole team, their versatile and friendly atmosphere continues to keep them as a local gem. If my love for pizza – and Lazy Moon – had to be quantified in a visual representation, just stop by and order the Down Home in a 30-inch… if you can handle it.