BY JACKIE FENDER for WEEKLY VOLCANO | 8/21/2026
Don’t sleep on the “after-school pizza” at this historic, chaotic Tacoma dive
It seems that more than one food writer from a major daily newspaper has been checking in at Parky’s Tavern in McKinley Hill lately, so I popped in with my guy this weekend to make sure it was, you know, still cool in there.
I tend to divvy up bars into two categories in my head: 1. bars that are restaurants first but also happen to have a physical bar inside, like Irish pubs and fried chicken joints, and 2. bars that are bar-shaped and identify as bars first, regardless of whether or not they sell food.
But I’ve been torn on Parky’s. After spending 84 years as a no-frills watering hole, it was reimagined as Parky’s Pizza Bar only five years ago, in 2021. And the clientele has stayed decidedly … crusty. (That’s good, of course, especially for a pizza place.) Even though it’s perhaps equal parts restaurant and bar these days, rather than just a bar, Parky’s has managed to retain its former aesthetic as a shitass neighborhood dive. The best of both.
I know that Tacoma’s pizza era is in full bloom, and owners Kim and Dylan Ashley clearly know this too, but in another best-of-both move, the pizza here kicks ass while at once sailing under the average snooty foodie’s radar. Parky’s pies are made with imported Caputo double-zero flour, and the dough’s cold-fermented for five days before it gets dressed to meet the fire. Pretty fancy! These Neapolitan-ish 12-inchers are available in nine different combos plus a weekly special, or you can DIY your own toppings, and are the perfect size for two moderately hungry people. They’re priced between $11 and $14. Not bad for dinner for two.
With that said, I wasn’t hungry when we landed at Parky’s, but when my dude ordered a hot honey meat lovers’ special, I devoured half of it because I could not control myself. Absurdly delicious. I had to consult a photo later to find out which meats were on this pizza after the fact, so swiftly was it obliterated by us. (Pepperoni, sausage, and Canadian bacon, I think.) Magnets pulled my hands toward another slice the very second the previous one was gone.
For all of that fanciness, though, my guy later endearingly referred to the pie as “after-school pizza,” and that feels accurate. Maybe due to the cornstarch-dusted bottom? Something about it rang a bell in the ghost of his teenage heart, anyhow. The point being that, although it may have extra steps, and I know those steps make it even more delicious, the result still feels like accessible everyman pizza.
We also loved the luxurious admixture of hot honey commingled with pepperoni oil and tomato sauce and mozzarella grease that collected in the empty pizza pan. As soon as we finished the pie, both of us commenced mopping that pan up with the pizza bones, wordlessly, in unison. Not gonna waste a drop of that stuff, hell no.
We were as thrilled with the pizza as we were to see that Parky’s wacky vibe was still rock-solid and intact. As soon as our asses hit the vintage bar stools, the bar’s population surged from like four people to twenty in the space of 15 minutes. The bartender was doing it all solo, and despite the sudden crush, bro was just not stressed about it at all. Cheerful, even. I respect it.
More importantly, the bartender had a T-shirt of the 1987 taekwondo action flick Miami Connection, and when my boyfriend commented on it, we were treated to a detailed breakdown of the entire plot. While this was happening, a pastiche of a hair metal song that included “gonorrhea” among its lyrics started playing, which is how we learned about comedy glam band Steel Panther. Then a Gen X grandpa (no hate) at the end of the bar overheard us exclaiming about the lyrics and was like, “Oh, you’ve gotta see Steel Panther in concert. I’ve been a bunch of times.” Obviously, he was the one who put it on the jukebox. So we got a lecture on Steel Panther’s salacious catalog as well.
The evening unraveled from there, as someone said something about karaoke and the cook rushed out from the kitchen, double-fisting pizzas on wire risers, and was like, “Did someone say karaoke? Where we goin’??” Every person in the bar then broke out into a collective symposium on where the best karaoke nights in town are, with The Valley (Thursdays) and New Frontier Lounge (Tuesdays) among the frontrunners. The consensus was that Bob’s, while beloved, is too crowded and the rotation takes forever. I’m still praying on Spud’s to reopen, myself, but let’s not jinx it.
For drinks, I started with a Cadillac marg, another special, pretty good, but when the next drink I ordered was out of stock, I asked the cook to close his eyes and pick a random can from the ice bin. To my absolute delight, he did it! No one will ever do this for me! I liked my pineapple White Claw that I wouldn’t have ever ordered. I’m sure because pineapple tastes so good with pizza, as everyone was born knowing.
Anyway. We loved all of this. Every speck of chaos. This is just what you want from a neighborhood dive, and it’s also a very Tacoma experience, might I add. People don’t even make eye contact in most PNW bars, to say nothing of spontaneously forming a tribunal on personal karaoke tastes or educating strangers on metal songs about gonorrhea.
I do realize the great irony of getting mad at other food writers for liking the things I like, and yes, I regret knee-jerk wanting to gatekeep things like this. Because hey, Parky’s is for everyone. Even salaried food writers at major dailies. All the same, I’m pleased to report that the flavor at Parky’s was as immaculately shitass as it was the last time we stopped by, and that this chaotic little jewel is still marked safe from gentrification, it seems. Fermented pizza dough notwithstanding.
