It is the epitome of pizza parlors. It’s noisy, crowded and smells greasy. The tables are full of families with gurgling toddlers tipping over their parents’ pitchers of beer and soda. We ask for a table.

The employee gives us a strange look. “You have to get your own. Just wait until someone is done eating.”

“The vulture system,” I remark to Adam. “Very interesting.”

We lurk awkwardly around a table whose diners look to be finishing their pizza. They leave, and we sit down quickly before any else can take our hard-earned spot. An employee trips over us trying to wipe away the pizza grease.

As we sit down, I take a look around the restaurant. It is filled with the obligatory dark-wood booths and neon beer-logo signs. A bar in the back sits under a TV broadcasting ESPN. One table is full of Stanford grad students, but most spots are occupied by young families. Across the aisle from us, a preschool-age boy is playing with an impressive collection of plastic lizards.

We turn our attention to the menu, and my impressions of Applewood improve slightly. The pizzas are creative, but not so weird as to turn off potential diners. Roughly half of the pizzas are named after cities or geographical regions. Acapulco pizza has ground beef, salsa and chilies. Scandinavian pizza has smoked salmon and capers. There are also some more local options. Los Altos pizza has BBQ chicken, red onions, pesto and tomatoes. Menlo Combo has pepperoni, salami, Italian sausage and mushrooms.

Apparently, no one in our group wants a geographical region-themed pizza. Betsy and I decide to split a medium Margherita pizza. Ashley wants Hawaiian but no one else does, so she gets a personal pizza. Adam and Ricky are indecisive, so they decide to pick their own toppings. This quickly turns into the “what is the grossest combination we can come up with” game.

“Prawns and pineapple!”

“Anchovies and pineapple!”

“Eggplant and pineapple!”

“Why does pineapple add another dimension of weirdness to everything?” Adam wonders.

Eventually, they decide on pepperoni and mushroom — without pineapple.

We place our orders and eagerly anticipate our pizza. Adam notices the ceiling paint job. It’s painted rather incongruously, and resembles a pale blue sky with fluffy clouds. The stucco is peeling off under one cloud, producing a jagged — and frightening — effect.

Adam is laughing: “Cumulus... cumulus... cumulus... Oh my god!”

We wait for our numbers to be called so we can go grab our pizzas. But they’re not called in any logical order.

“What if there was a restaurant where they assigned numbers from a random number generator?” someone suggests.

“No,” Betsy says. “A math-themed cafe where the numbers can only be primes!”

Ashley has a better idea: “I think they should call out words instead of numbers.”

Luckily, our pizza is ready before we can think of any more ideas. We carry the steaming pies back to our table. The delicious smell brings my opinion of Applewood up another notch. I bite into a slice. The crust is thick and light and golden brown. The basil pesto complements the three cheeses perfectly. I am momentarily transported out of the crowded pizza parlor, into bliss.

A bit later, Bianca brings me back to the moment. She is alleviating her boredom by emptying the table’s salt shaker onto her plate.

This seems to be our cue to leave.

We finish our pizzas and I bid the squalling toddlers of Applewood a respectful farewell.

The Bottom Line:

I’m not a big fan of the pizza parlor experience. Still, this restaurant offers the best pizza I’ve had in a while. I would get take-out from Applewood any day.