The Number 19
A neighborhood restaurant closes its doors but the stories keep cooking
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Whether you liked it or not, there was going to be a Number 19.
It was a pizza born out of love, revenge, and, I think, tequila. It became named for its inventor, the architect of an aggressively topped creation, a challenge to the digestive system that would leave the faint of heart running for safety to the Mexican restaurant next door.
A pizza curated by and for one man ultimately earned a permanent spot on the menu and evolved into both a posthumous tribute and a badge of honor. Perhaps most importantly, this pizza united people around the dinner table. It was a light-hearted legacy to be shared by friends.
Carino’s, a beloved casual Italian restaurant and pizzeria in La Jolla where regulars became family, closed last week after decades of operation.
And so, it appears that the Gunslinger Special, also known as the Number 19, has been ordered for the last time. The pizza featured Carino’s standard olive oil-kissed crust, their learn-to-love two-cheese blend, and — here it comes — double garlic and double pepperoni.
The man behind that pizza was the Gunslinger himself, Kevin Towers.
Like so many people and places in San Diego, I came to know Carino’s through KT. The restaurant, with three booths lining each side of a small dining area and a few small tables in the middle, was a regular Sunday night destination for Kelley and him during the Padres days and beyond. On some Sundays, I was invited to join them; on other Sundays, I found my own way there.
In the end it didn’t really matter whom you went with because Carino’s inherently nurtured its own communal atmosphere.
My first experience with Carino’s came after KT recommended it to my friend Pete and me. Pete and I were both new to town, new to the Padres, and single; KT wanted only the best for his two new lumps of clay.
Both of us made the mistake of taking our first pizza to go. The magic of Carino’s is in the dining experience — the smell of pizza fresh from the oven, the jocular banter between customers and staff, the stories told by the photos on the wall, the classic Michelob on tap, the single restroom accessed by walking through the small kitchen.
Then, there were Tyler and Russell, the glue of the restaurant. Carino’s without them making pies, pouring drinks, and infusing their so-I-was-thinking-about-going-to-a-game-next-week charm is like a pizza without sauce and cheese — incomplete and not something I want.
Tyler and Russell were — and still are — big Padres fans. Padres staff were big Carino’s fans. You can see where this leads. Carino’s became an unofficial hub of professional baseball in San Diego.
At least three active Major League managers have eaten there and wouldn’t need GPS to arrive safely. If KT stopped in at the right time of year, there was a chance that Tyler, Russell, and anyone else present might have known more about the team’s direction than Petco Park employees. They were honorary special assistants to the GM, really.
When Tyler set his wedding date and Russell accepted Best Man honors, the then-owner told them he couldn’t have both his guys out on a Saturday. Problem solved: KT and Kelley ran the front of the restaurant that night. (An unusually large number of orders were comped and covered by the pinch-hitting waitstaff.)
Over the years, I liked to share with Tyler, who eventually took over Carino’s as owner, that I had worked at the on-campus pizza place during college. That knowledge led to an open invitation/challenge to put my undergraduate skills to use.
During the month of October in 2010, when I was in NL West limbo somewhere between San Diego and Phoenix, I took him up on the offer.
My west coast pizza-making endeavors encountered early challenges. In a haze of excitement, I managed to lock myself out of my condo, car keys still inside. A more forward-thinking person may have founded Uber at this instance.
I, on the other hand, made myself forward-moving and began jogging the 2.5 miles from my door to the restaurant. At some point a cab drove by and I flagged it down. My first and only day on the job, and I was 30 minutes late with an awful and awfully true excuse. While the restaurant may now be closed, the stories persist.
Over the years, I had taken my parents, friends, girlfriends, wife, and children to Carino’s.
Annually, led by Kelley, we gathered at Carino’s on the anniversary of KT’s passing to celebrate his life. Pictures of him were on permanent display there, and more importantly, his spirit was alive within the walls of this multigenerational neighborhood haven.
When a local institution shuts down, the ramifications transcend Sunday night dinners and familiar gatherings. There are families impacted by the financial consequences. My hope is that new opportunity arises from the love that hundreds of people have for Carino’s.
The doors may now be closed, but the Number 19 is forever.
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Such a bummer! What was the reason they closed the doors?