Robert Connors

Robert Connors

Robert C. Connors III lives in Myrtle Beach.

For breakfast, I had a chicken sandwich from Refuel. Very, very good. You know, I’m on a diet, so I thought eating chicken would probably be the best thing for me. It was fried chicken tenders on toasted bread. And I had the choice: with or without cheese. Every now and then I’ll flip-flop back and forth. I also had a cup of coffee.

Then I had a Black Forest ham-and-Swiss cheese sandwich on Jewish rye. That was lunch. Two of them.

I’d made some Italian pasta salad with onion, green pepper, red pepper and Italian seasoning, marinated overnight. I used to cook in restaurants, so I try to eat well. I don’t want to blow up.

Before I came here, I lived in Philadelphia. They don’t have pizza down here like they do there. Papa John’s, no matter who it is, they all taste the same. They taste plain. So I taught myself how to make it, and I got it down to a T, and it’s so good.

My crust is so good. Not because it’s mine, but because I mastered it. Believe it or not, it’s like a tablespoon of sugar, a teaspoon and a half of kosher salt, three cups of all-purpose flour; not the cheap kind, old-fashioned yeast, two tablespoons of Carnation dry milk and a cup of cold water. The longer you let it sit and rise, the better it tastes.

If the crust is not right, throw that stuff away. Oh my God, I love pizza.

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