Editor’s note: This is the third article in a three-part series on the world’s weirdest toppings. Click here to read part 1 and click here to read part 2.
By Brian Hernandez
In Part 2 of this series on the world’s weirdest pizza toppings, we proved something important: Weird toppings aren’t the problem. Bad planning is. Reindeer works. Banana and curry work. Collards and black-eyed peas behave perfectly well once someone in the kitchen spends five minutes thinking about moisture, balance and texture. Cooking the weird stuff, it turns out, is the easy part. The real challenge begins when you try to put something like that on a menu without customers giving you the look that says, “You want me to eat what, exactly?”
The hesitation has nothing to do with flavor and everything to do with psychology. The moment someone reads “banana curry pizza,” a small alarm goes off in their brain that suggests this might be a mistake. Customers aren’t afraid of unusual food nearly as much as they’re afraid of ordering wrong and wasting their money. That hesitation is exactly where most experimental pizzas die, long before the chef has a chance to prove the idea works.
The solution is leaning into the mystery while lowering the risk just enough that curiosity wins. Treat the weird pizza less like a standard menu item and more like something customers get to investigate. And before anyone asks why this section suddenly sounds like it belongs in a government filing cabinet, I should mention I’ve been watching a lot of army-versus-alien movies and a steady stream of The X-Files lately, and you all know how that sort of thing tends to influence how I write. No apologies. We’re leaning into it.
So with that established, it’s time to open the file cabinet and start the investigation. Here we go.
Case File #1: The Experimental Flight Program
Most customers hesitate to commit to a whole experimental pizza, assuming it’s sufficiently weird, so don’t make them. Instead, offer a three-slice sampler called The Experimental Flight Program. Think of it as a controlled taste test for unexplained flavor activity. One slice sweet. One slice savory. One slice completely chaotic.
Now the decision isn’t, “Do I want a whole banana curry pizza?” It becomes, “Let’s run the test flight.” Lower commitment means higher curiosity, and once customers discover a favorite slice, you suddenly have a new special that has already passed its first round of field testing. By that point the pizza isn’t a strange idea anymore. It’s simply a successful experiment that customers helped confirm. I can already hear you, and it’s not my problem to figure out logistics of three slices per plate per person. That’s above my pay grade, I’m just an idea man.
Case File #2: The Eyewitness Log
Put the experimental pizza on the menu and invite customers to file their “sighting.”
Set up a chalkboard or wall called The Eyewitness Log. Anyone who orders the weird pie gets to leave a one-line field report about what just happened. Fact, fiction or wild speculation—it all goes on the record.
“Observation logged at 7:42 p.m. Initial skepticism noted. Second bite confirmed. Flavor combination not safe for human consumption, must be eradicated.”
“Subject claimed banana and curry should not coexist. Further investigation indicates they may have been wrong.”
Customers start ordering the pizza just to see if the reports are real. The log turns into a running record of eyewitness accounts, and people inevitably start photographing it for social media. Once customers feel like they’re documenting the encounter instead of just ordering dinner, curiosity tends to beat skepticism.
Case File #3: The Mission Briefing (pictured at top)
Treat the weird pizza like a military operation. Instead of just listing ingredients on the menu, present the pie like a classified mission. This could be printed as a placemat, table sheet or large briefing-style insert that lands in front of the customer before the slice or whole pizza even arrives. Design it to look like an old mission dossier.
Operation: Memphis Belle
Objective: Deliver payload of roasted peas, collards and pepper relish
Risk Level: Moderate turbulence. High flavor yield.
The whole thing reads like a wartime briefing document, complete with rubber stamps, file numbers and maybe even a photo of the pizza clipped onto the “case file.” Customers only need 10 seconds to read it, but suddenly the pizza has a story. And when something has a story, people photograph it, share it and talk about it. This also gets the customer feeling like part of the mission. As a fun bonus gag, get an actual CLASSIFIED rubber stamp and stamp the kids’ hands or forehead…if their parents say it’s OK.
Case File #4: The Mission Abort Procedure
Fear disappears when customers know there’s an escape hatch. Add a small line on the menu that reads something like:
Mission Abort Procedure:
“If the experiment goes sideways and you truly hate it, we’ll quietly swap it for a pepperoni. This conversation will never be acknowledged again.”
The goal isn’t to encourage refunds. It’s to remove the fear of committing to the weird pizza in the first place. Once customers know there’s a safety net, the order suddenly feels less like a gamble and more like a harmless experiment.
And if someone does activate the abort procedure, it doesn’t turn into a full production. You slide them a pepperoni, give them a nod, and the entire incident is handled under the strict doctrine of plausible deniability. No announcements, no parade, and definitely no shame for the person who bailed out early like a quitter. Or take the opposite approach and have two servers don black suits and sunglasses and deliver it to their table, drop it and quietly walk away.
Case File #5: The Secret Pizza Drop
Instead of announcing the weird pizza like a normal menu item, release it like a classified drop. Once a week, post something cryptic on social media.
“Tonight’s Weird Drop: Operation Reindeer Games.”
No photo. No explanation. The only way to see it is to show up and ask for it. Scarcity plus mystery turns the pizza into something customers feel like they discovered themselves. Now it’s a small leap of faith, a little gamble, and suddenly they’re part of the action—chasing the experiment like a couple of agents running after little gray aliens that just stole their breadsticks. And best of all, it costs exactly nothing in marketing budget.
Case File #6: The Declassified Pizza Files
Run a monthly event where the experimental menu is treated like classified government material. Customers receive menus with redacted ingredient lists.
“Tomato sauce, mozzarella, ████████, roasted peanuts and honey.”
Suddenly dinner isn’t just dinner anymore. It’s a Freedom of Pizza Information hearing, and the only way to uncover the truth is to taste the evidence. Of course, offer any appropriate allergen warnings in advance. We’re conspiratorial. Not murderous.
Case File #7: The Conspiracy Board
Create a corkboard in the restaurant lobby that looks like a conspiracy theorist’s wall.
Photos of ingredients are pinned all over the board and connected with string and sticky notes.
“BANANA?”
“LINGONBERRY?”
“WHO APPROVED THIS?”
“FOLLOW THE FLAVOR!”
All the clues point toward the center of the board. That middle image is covered by a small flap. Customers can see the ingredients, the strings and the speculation, but the final answer stays hidden until someone lifts the flap and reveals the actual pizza built from those ingredients.
People start gathering around the board trying to decode the pie before ordering it. You’ve just turned a marketing display into a conversation starter… and a small culinary conspiracy waiting to be solved.
Investigation Summary
Pizza is one of the most adaptable foods on earth. Dough, sauce and cheese form a kind of culinary blank canvas that can absorb almost anything you throw at it, which means the reason strange toppings rarely make it onto menus isn’t because they don’t work. More often it’s because they’re introduced the wrong way. Present the pizza like a mistake and people avoid it; present it like something slightly mysterious and worth investigating, and curiosity tends to take over. Lean into the mystery just a little, and the topping that sounded suspicious on Monday might be the one you’re sold out of by Saturday night. Case closed.
Brian Hernandez is PMQ Pizza’s associate editor.
