There was this pizza place back home, Frank's Pizza Palace.  They always had good local beers on tap, there was that comfortable dive atmosphere that just couldn't be recreated, and they dished out by far the best thin crust cheese that existed in the upper Midwest.  Mostly Mike didn't mind whatever Gypsy programmed the ship's food manufacturing system to churn out - though, after a couple of years, it all mostly tasted like Kraft Mac and Cheese, but where the cheese had got a little burned and there wasn't quite enough milk - but every now and then, he just really missed Frank's Pizza Palace.

He'd find a quiet nook in the SOL, sort of tuck himself in, close his eyes, and remember it.  The slightly-crispy plastic canvas covering the booth seats.  The assortment of junk hanging off the walls.  The jukebox, somehow always playing Foreigner.  And the pizza itself, of course.  The crust so crisp you could fling a pizza through the air and behead someone with it; the gooey cheese, stretching out to infinity if you just had patience; the sauce, which had to be homemade - was there an old man named Frank cooking it up in the kitchen, stirring a pot the size of a hot water tank eight hours a day?  Hot pizza, cold beer, some pretty girl trying to find something on the jukebox that wasn't Foreigner....

"We've got movie sign!" Servo bellowed.

Mike sighed, extricated himself from his nook, and trudged back to the theater.