Taco Pizza: Jewel of the Midwest

Posted On November 3, 2019

I don’t like pizza.

Well, I don’t like pizza with red sauce. Do you know what it’s like growing up loathing the one thing that is always served to children, often to celebrate some kind of milestone or achievement? I was a voracious reader who absolutely made Pizza Hut’s Book-It program my bitch in grade school, but all those hard-earned free personal pan pizza certificates went to my little brother.

I brought box lunches on pizza party days. As I got older, I learned to surgically remove the cheesy topping in one meticulously detached layer, like a plastic surgeon. I would literally scrub the crust and underside of the cheese layer of the sickeningly sweet, gloppy, and oregano-forward sauce so I could pretend to be a cool pizza lovin’ kid like everyone else.

But I did love Pizza Hut’s taco pizza. That oil-crisped crust topped with a sausage-y bean mixture and the whitest taco toppings imaginable was my saving grace. (And also conveniently not included in the free pizzas offered via Book-It. I still hate you, Pizza Hut.)

Taco pizza actually originated at another Midwest gem, Happy Joe’s. This is where almost all of my childhood birthday parties were hosted. Makes sense, right? “Let’s have her birthday at a place that only serves the food she hates the most because everyone else except the birthday girl likes it.” Now you can see why I run away to a national park alone for my birthday every year.

Now that I’m an adult, I like pizza so long as it has no red sauce. I live around countless great pizza places that have opened my eyes beyond the shitty chain pizzas of my childhood. The pizzas I love are really just big ass open face grilled cheese, but now I can go out for dinner without looking like I’m playing Operation! with my pizza.

Pizza Hut taco pizza appears to not exist anymore, so I have spent the last few years tinkering with my own recipe. I think it’s pretty damn good AND it can easily be made vegetarian. Give it a whirl!

(Yes, I have been to Roots. No, it is not good. Do not eat their taco pizza. Make this one instead.)

Taco Pizza
Makes 1 10-inch pizza | Prep time: 24 hours | Cook time: 15 minutes

Serious Eats pan pizza dough (this makes enough dough for two pizzas; double below if you want two pizzas)

8 oz. Mexican chorizo (I like pork or soy Cacique versions)
1 cup refried beans
1 tablespoon Valentina hot sauce
1 teaspoon Tajin
4 oz. sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
3/4 cup pico de gallo
2 cups romaine lettuce, chopped
1 medium red onion, diced
2 cups of crushed Doritos

The day before you want to eat pizza, prepare the dough recipe. It needs to proof overnight AND rise for 2-3 hours again after you’ve plopped it into the well-oiled 10-inch cast iron pan. It is SO worth the extra planning and is almost completely hands-off.

Once the dough has proofed for an hour in a well-oiled 10-inch cast iron skillet, preheat the oven to 500F. (Or 550F, if you have some kind of rocket fueled oven, but ya girl lives in an apartment with rental unit appliances.)

While the dough finishing rising into its final pillowy form, place a skillet over medium heat and cook the chorizo through, breaking into small crumbles while cooking. Lower heat and add refried beans, Valentina hot sauce, and Tajin to the chorizo; stir until combined and heated through.

Starting a few scoops at a time, spread the chorizo mixture over the top of the pizza, being careful to not burst any of those beautiful bubbles. (Say that like Maya Rudolph in Big Mouth.) You may not use all of the sauce; aim to have a thin layer that covers the dough all over, but not a gloppy heavy coating.

Top with shredded cheese and half of the diced red onion.

Bake for 12-15 minutes, or until the bottom of the crust is golden brown. If your pizza is cook through but isn’t golden on the bottom, remove from the oven and put the pan over medium high heat, checking damn near constantly, to crisp up the bottom. (Again, shitty apartment ovens, y’all!)

Remove from pan and top with lettuce, pico de gallo, and remaining red onion. Top with crushed Doritos like they’re savory neon orange glitter.

Slice and enjoy being whisked away by the true culinary treasure of the Midwest.