I’ve passed this old strip plaza in Riverdale, Maryland, in Prince George’s County, a million times. Usually it was on the way to my favorite Chinese buffet, out in Lanham. I always stopped and noticed it, because it looked so retro. I never, however, thought there was anything particularly interesting in it.

On a Maryland Facebook group I follow, I saw an announcement a few weeks ago: a pizza joint called Pizza Oven in Riverdale, the last of an erstwhile chain that once stretched to the Eastern Shore, was closing. The owner, one 90-year-old Brian Boileau, was retiring—in fact, did so on December 31st, 2023—and the beloved local pizza parlor would close after sitting in the same spot since its opening in 1957. Local news covered the announcement, and painted a wonderful picture of the longtime business.

Of course, a little bit of internet searching confirmed that this was in fact the pizza parlor I had passed countless times in that old-school strip plaza. And, of course, I had to go. Adding to my interest was the fact that the Pizza Oven chain, along with Ledo Pizza, pioneered what’s now known as “Maryland-style pizza”—classically square, with a thin but more cracker-y crust than New York style. Also, at least in 2010 when this article was written, Boileau used his own tomatoes in the sauce and made most of the ingredients from scratch.

The restaurant follows recipes that date to its opening. An article I can’t find now noted that Boileau’s kids were free to continue the use of the recipes, but there were no plans to do so right now. It would be understandable if, as is often the case, the next generation didn’t want the hassle of operating a crowded, tiny restaurant which probably only makes a modest profit all told. It’s a very tough business, and 1957-2023 is an incredible run for such an establishment.

Boileau “needs shoulder surgery and knee surgery, and he said the mess of the Purple Line construction outside his door has destroyed his business.” That’s that construction you see outside the parking lot, in the photo of the strip plaza’s sign.

I had originally planned to go at lunchtime, buy a large pizza, have a slice, and then bring the rest home. When I arrived, it quickly became clear this wasn’t going to happen. Finding a spot in the little old parking lot was contentious—some construction along the road didn’t help—and there was a good line out the door.

Young, old, black, white—it was a diverse crowd, most of whom had grown up eating this pizza and were all there to partake one more time. I chatted with a couple of folks, though they did more of the talking because they were locals who knew the place. I took a few exterior photos.

There’s a corn drink and Mexican street food-style corn-on-the-cob on the menu now—the area has trended Hispanic in recent decades, and the business has kept up with the demographics.

In the bottom left of the photo right above is a vintage photo of the strip plaza in its current form. Right here below is a photo from even earlier.

After I’d been waiting maybe half an hour, it made its way through the line that the current wait time for a pizza order placed now was two hours. A few minutes later that was amended to two and a half hours. And no phone orders were being taken—that was just from the assembled crowd. Finally I was inside the building. The place is a time capsule, but one that stretches from the old days up to now. A record in hats and wall decor. Lovely clutter.

The fellow in red is Brian. Look at that old menu board, which must be untouched from some decades ago. The gyro is “the Greek sensation,” and there are take-home pizzas offered with a deposit for the pan in which they are to be baked. The prices, however, are missing, and there’s a modern menu for ordering now.

Inside, I heard a woman who had a plane to catch, and who had already ordered, complaining that she would miss her flight if she waited for her pizza. I’m curious which one she chose.

In any case, no pizza was going to go to waste. A few moments later, a woman who I learned was the owner’s daughter—she called him “dad”—came to the counter with three small pizzas stacked up. She announced in a booming voice that somebody had failed to pick up an order. One small pepperoni and sausage pizza, fully cooked, two small pepperoni and sausage pizzas, par-baked to take home. Any takers? Someone quickly scooped up the ready-to-eat pie, after which the daughter went back to selling the two par-baked ones.

It was already too late for lunch, let alone by the time my potential order would be done, and I had to get back to Virginia before the worst of rush hour. So I grabbed the two par-baked pies—perfect for an at-home, low-maintenance pizza night—and completed my visit with a few more pictures. (Sadly, the row of vintage arcade machines was no longer there.) My only regret is that the small pizzas are not square. But I’m sure they taste the same.

I haven’t tried them yet—they’re in my freezer, but they sure smelled good and look fine. I’ll agree to concede that if I don’t prefer them, it’s just my New York-area snobbery talking.

But the building. Any structure that stands almost unchanged from the early postwar era is interesting to me. This is basically when a lot of these early suburban communities began in a form recognizable today. Prince George’s County had trolleys and streetcar suburbs, so postwar suburbia wasn’t exactly a beginning, but most of what’s now standing in the area, especially these small neighborhood shopping centers adjacent to neighborhoods of small houses, are from this period.

The portion of the structure in which the Pizza Oven resides is, according to the state’s official property record, from 1954. The rest of it, an extension around the corner with few larger storefronts, was built a few years later (according to historic aerial imagery, it’s not there in 1957, where the land is already cleared for it, but is there in 1963, and probably a few years earlier.)

I can’t quite make out where, exactly, that old picture hanging in the window fits either in the timeline or in the structure. But one of the people I was chatting with in line told me it was the part of the building that Pizza Oven occupies now. In other words, the smaller half of the strip plaza began life as a supermarket in 1954. I’m not positive, but there’s no question a supermarket once filled part of this space.

The age of all of this shows, and the fact is these simple little retail strips and their neighborhoods of small detached houses were probably not intended to last forever. In some way, this suspended animation from the 1950s might indicate a lack of economic vitality. But the storefronts are full, and you can see the age as a patina. Time hallows things; time creates a sense of charm.

There isn’t going to be a beloved restaurant in its sixth or seventh decade in an outer exurb, because nothing has been there for 60 or 70 years. Living in or near a place with this kind of head start, where things have gotten to accumulate and mature—it’s a blessing, something lovely and human and edifying, disguised in an old, parking-challenged strip mall from 1954.

Related Reading:

Didn’t Used To Be a Pizza Hut

Culture, Nostalgia, Cuisines as Living Things

Iconic Hometown Restaurant, Obsolete Dining Concept?

Thank you for reading! Please consider upgrading to a paid subscription to help support this newsletter. You’ll get a weekly subscribers-only piece, plus full access to the archive: over 800 pieces and growing. And you’ll help ensure more like this!

Share