After school let out on Friday, I gave a friend a lift and headed over to C.J.’s Pizza. We didn’t expect anything great, just a normal conversation over some average pizza and trying to determine how long it would be until my friend would forget that I owed him money—he paid for the dinner, after all.

We walked in, and the place was empty, aside from an awkward middle-aged couple occupying a booth in the corner. I watched them nurse a 10-inch New York style pizza, growing nervous that I might owe money over something that wasn’t that great.

My worries were alleviated by a blonde college student behind the counter. She seemed genuinely happy to see us. I chalked it up to the slow business at the time, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she genuinely liked her job and wanted to serve us. She even helped us navigate the admittedly sparse-looking, text-heavy menu. Lots of content with no pictures inside. Everything looked pretty good, though. The three of us decided what would feed two hungry high school males best.

The answer was obvious: The Meatza. A huge 16-inch pizza covered in meat as far as the eye could see. We forked over the 20 or so bucks and took our tables.

Really, I thought. Meatza. As a guy, I have to admit that the prospect got me excited. I began to reevaluate my first impressions. Now, the Italian-meets-a-wholesome-Applebees look was starting to grow on me the more I became accustomed to the place.

The wait was a bit long, but it was helped along by conversation. And when I finally saw the pizza, carried out by a different blonde woman who looked at least as nice and eager as the one at the counter, the wait made sense: That pizza could’ve fed three small African villages for weeks on end.

And once we actually started to eat the pizza, each of us was pleasantly surprised. The ingredients had higher quality than I’d expected, as was the overall taste. The dish blew my expectations of a Wal-Mart caliber pie right out of the water. My friend and I barely talked as we stuffed our faces, the testosterone coursing through our veins from eating an all-meat pizza with a monster truck rally showing on the flat screen above us.

The new blonde woman checked up on us periodically, getting us refills, asking for anything else she could do, etc., each time with a smile on her face. She even laughed at my dumb jokes. The best part for her, though, was probably the look on our faces when we realized we couldn’t eat anymore—and that half the pizza was left. She chuckled and got us a to-go box as soon as she could.

I ate at C.J.’s again on Sunday and Monday. On Sunday, I ordered takeout for my family, two 10-inch pizzas, each for about 11 dollars. The “Top Gun” and the Buffalo Pizza, if I recall their names correctly. At first, I was disappointed at their size, as was my father. But he and I soon discovered that what these junior pizzas lacked in size, they more than made up for in flavor. They were also much more filling than I’d expected.

On Monday, I went and ordered a sub sandwich on a whim. It was a “Roman” sub if I recall correctly, for about seven dollars and 50 cents. While the sandwich was good and the service was friendly and considerate, even with more business this time around, I found myself having to let some excess grease drain from the sandwich. The pasta salad side was good, too, I might add.

Overall, C.J.’s Pizza has charming service, great food and casual atmosphere. It’s an especially great place to go with a group, due to the large portions and the nature of the meal. (Hint: Definitely get the 16-inch pizza when attending with a group.) The waits were long and the greases were a bit much, but those will likely trim themselves down as the kitchen crew gets more experience.

For a small town, family-run business, C.J.’s Pizza had a knack for subverting my expectations and pleasantly surprising me at just about every turn. I'd love to see what it's like in there come college football season.