There are two kinds of game nights. The kind that actually happen, and the kind that fall apart because someone forgot to bring the dice, or the food shows up cold, or the couple hosting it fights in the kitchen. I was determined not to let ours be that second kind.
I’d invited over six people, maybe eight depending on if Cassie and her new boyfriend made it. I’d deep-cleaned the living room and borrowed extra chairs from the neighbor who never brings them back. I had Spotify set to a collaborative playlist. The only thing left to handle was dinner. And since I am not the person who “whips up” anything, I knew we’d be ordering in.
It had to be pizza. That was the easy part. The hard part? Finding pizza delivery in Arden that wouldn’t let us down.
We live on the far edge of town, sort of between the high school and that stretch of old gas stations that somehow still exist. Most deliveries either say no outright or arrive after 90 minutes with cardboard in a box and an apology that somehow makes it worse. I wasn’t doing that again.
I started searching around 3:00 p.m. so I’d have options ready when people arrived. That’s when I found a place that wasn’t part of a chain and actually specialized in Detroit-style pizza. I didn’t even know we had that around here.
They had these square, thick-edged pies that looked equal parts crust and crisp and cheese and caramelized edges. I was sold. I called and got a real person, not a robot. They told me they could do half-and-half pans, and that delivery usually took about 35 minutes unless we were super far out.
I asked if we were “super far out.” He laughed. “You’re in Arden, right? You’re good.”
The game night started at 6. The pizza got here at 6:10. Still hot, no weird leaks on the box, no weird phone calls saying the driver got lost.
And that’s how this delivery order became the best part of the night.
We opened the boxes and it was like pulling open treasure chests. The crust was golden on the edges, airy inside. The sauce was layered on top in thick, rich ribbons, not poured over everything like a bowl of soup. You could tell someone cared about this pizza. One had pepperoni that curled up into little crispy cups, and another had mushrooms and olives with this drizzle of some kind of garlic butter thing that made people pause mid-bite just to say “okay, wait, this is really good.”
My friend Amanda, who is kind of a food snob in the best way, actually took a photo. That’s saying something.
I don’t even remember who won the game. I just remember everyone kept asking where the pizza was from, and if they delivered on weeknights too. It turned out they had some kind of deal on Tuesdays, and I added a note in my phone right then and there.
That night taught me something: the difference between a decent night and a great one is often delivered in a square box. And as someone who’s been burned by bad pizza in the past, I can honestly say I’m now one of those people who swears by a local spot.
The kind of place that delivers pizza in Arden like it actually matters.
A clear winner the second time around
The second time I ordered, it was raining. Not “oh it’s misty out” raining, but full-blown Appalachian downpour, the kind that makes you turn off the radio and squint at the wipers like that’ll help them move faster.
It was a Tuesday. The Tuesday, actually. The one I’d saved in my phone for that pizza deal. I’d told myself I wasn’t going to spend money on takeout that week, but the idea of soggy leftovers and microwave rice made the decision for me. I pulled up the site again and placed the order.
And this is where I’ll say something I didn’t expect to say about a pizza place: they remembered me.
The guy on the phone—I’m pretty sure it was the same one—said, “You’re the one who had game night last time, right? Still on [my street]?”
That small detail, the fact that I didn’t have to explain who I was or where I lived, felt weirdly reassuring. It made the whole thing feel more like a conversation and less like a transaction.
They delivered in 30 minutes. The driver had an umbrella in one hand and my order tucked in a large insulated sleeve in the other. Not a single corner was soggy. The boxes were warm and dry, and so was I, thanks to not needing to drive anywhere.
This time I tried something new—a white pie with roasted garlic, artichokes, spinach, and ricotta. Sounds fussy. Tasted like magic. There’s this pillowy quality to their crust that makes it feel more like bread and less like cardboard, and when it’s topped with cheese and sauce in the right proportions? It’s the kind of thing that makes you think maybe Tuesdays are worth celebrating after all.
That second order wasn’t about impressing friends. It wasn’t about convenience. It was about comfort. Real, hot, hand-crafted comfort delivered to the front door of a normal person on a normal night who just wanted something better than average.
I’ve ordered a few times since. Sometimes it’s with friends, sometimes alone. And each time it reminds me how rare it is to find a business that still seems to care. No gimmicks. No app pushing pop-ups. Just square pies that are actually hot, toppings that don’t slide around in the box, and a team that pays attention.
So, if you live around here and you’re still gambling on who might show up with dinner tonight—don’t. There’s a square box waiting for you with your name on it.
