What’s more personal than how you like your pizza? In a city like Seattle, where opinions can end friendships, what you think about pizza could matter nearly as much as whom you voted for.

Which makes it all the more interesting that one of Seattle’s best pizza spots is named after the world’s most divisive pizza topping: Ananas, or “pineapple” in Italian (and over 40 other languages). At the helm is Khampaeng Panyathong, the Laotian chef whose claim to fame isn’t a viral noodle pull or reimagined laap, but instead, a cheeseburger—one so good it landed him on the cover of the New York Times food section. It’s the kind of culinary punchline you’d expect from a city that loves categories but rarely knows what to do with someone who sidesteps them.

But through the ironies, nothing about Khampaeng’s ascent has been accidental. This is a calculated dude, after all, one who knows as much about self-defense as he does fermentation, and that’s a fucking lot. He’s a chef who takes a certain pleasure in surprising people, avoiding the “authenticity” traps, letting the food speak for itself.

And to me, he very well could be Seattle’s most interesting chef, or at least one of the few who seem to have it all figured out.

The Unexpected Burger King

Khampaeng has never moved like a chef who wanted notoriety, or a newspaper story, for that matter. In person, he’s a kind and soft-spoken guy. A cross between Jet Tila and Jason Bourne. Whenever I get to see him, he always seems to be wearing three specific garments: a pair of cargo shorts, a blue trucker hat with three wolves backdropped by the American flag, and a fishing vest with pockets containing items you’d find at the same place he bought the hat. 

Most of Seattle’s restaurant scene is built on the backs of chefs like Khampaeng—people who know how to keep the lights on, who know what it takes to survive in the restaurant game, whether their names are on the lease or not. He spent more than a decade as the man behind the curtain, opening a dozen restaurants for other people while keeping even more from falling apart. By the end, it was clear to Khampaeng that working to build others’ dreams was no longer his. He just wanted to be his own boss. 

When he finally decided to open his first shop, he did so with the well-scoped speed that would characterize every subsequent opening of his. Within eight weeks of seeing a place he thought he could work with, he swiftly developed a concept, signed the lease, and opened Taurus Ox—a spot serving Laotian food in an old Thai restaurant. He knew people missing the Thai spot may be open to Lao food and, by that same token, knew they would also be confused by something like a burger joint, which was also within his range. 

And yet, it was a burger that put the Laotian chef on the map. The Lao Burger was born after sizing up the salad prep station at Taurus Ox with a goal to make a gateway dish—a tactical move driven by efficiency as much as his audience. What he created was so popular it demanded a spinoff. So when Taurus Ox eventually moved to a bigger location, Ox Burger took its place. Probably inevitable, definitely ironic.

But all this expansion wasn’t enough for Khampaeng. In the midst, he also signed the lease for a pizza joint that would become Ananas Pizzeria, welcomed his first baby, and quit drinking cold turkey (as a chef!). A lifetime packed into two years. “It was the hardest time of my life,” he tells me.

Surviving that stretch would be enough for anyone. For Khampaeng, it was another opportunity to surprise himself.

Eating in Enemy Territory

At Ananas, the argument about what does or doesn’t belong on pizza is part of the fun. After all, naming a pizza spot after pineapples is akin to naming your steakhouse Well Done. If you come here with prejudice for pineapple, or anything really, you won’t be indulged. “If you don’t like pineapple and you’re eating at Ananas, remember you’re in enemy territory,” Khampaeng says with a straight face. Out front, a wooden pineapple marks the door. Inside, the century-old building details peek through via ornate moldings. The space is anchored by a bar with a handful of two- and four-tops scattered about, lit up with red and purple bulbs and decorated sporadically with antlers, Japanese masks, and cheeky vintage cartoons. Like Red Robin, but somehow with even less reason. 

The menu is concise but mighty, with a handful of pies that all use hand-prepped, premium ingredients, plus salads and “pizza sandwiches” (think cold-cut ingredients in a fresh, folded pizza crust) at lunch. The namesake Ananas Pizza—one of only two pies on the menu with pineapple, in case you were nervous—is made with a 72-hour sourdough crust and fired in a 550-degree oven, with pineapple sliced so thin it almost melts, pickled jalapeños that shake hands with togarashi for spice, salt from the smoked ham and the grated Grana Padano cheese, and a comforting red sauce that has its own point of view. You can taste the technique, the inspiration, and the refusal to cut corners, even if it means having some of the most intensive prep of any pizza spot in the city. The same way you likely prefer a boba that isn’t made from a powder, Khampaeng likes a pizza with ingredients that don’t come from bags. 

The first time I visited Ananas, I arrived before opening. By the time I left, the place had woken all the way up, teeming with different demographics and energies: solo bicyclists sitting next to construction workers rubbing shoulders with gossiping friends, elderly women claiming their usual patio spots with massive pitchers of beer. Nobody seemed too concerned with the “rules” or the world, just about getting another slice before the next wave rolled in.

“The secret ingredient is giving a shit,” Khampaeng tells me. “If you want to do something special, if you want to be proud of it, you gotta care. You gotta do it the hard way.” 

If you ask me, naming a pizza place after a pineapple checks the “hard way” box. But that’s precisely the joke—naming your shop Ananas and giving pineapple a seat at the table turns “enemy territory” into a place to find common ground. In Seattle, where we make it our job to challenge the lines people draw to divide us, Khampaeng understood the assignment. “Who decides what’s right and what’s wrong? For pizza, but for anything?” he muses. “The lines between right and wrong, hate and disgust, are very thin.” And nowhere in the pizza world are those lines more sharp than with pineapple as a topping. Haters say it’s not authentic, that it doesn’t belong, and as a cohort, they’re very vocal about it. Disgust, it turns out, can bring people together just as fast as delight.

“Ketchup on hot dogs is like that, too,” he says. “People who hate on pineapple or ketchup have so much to say, but those that like it, don’t. Replace ‘pineapple’ with ‘race,’ with anything.” 

At Ananas, you’re invited to have a good time, but also be ready to possibly change your mind. That’s normal fare for a museum, maybe, but rare for a restaurant. But that’s why Ananas works, why any Khampaeng spot works. The food is technical and deliberate, but the spirit is easy and welcoming. Irreverence as an icebreaker, execution as a deal-sealer. Ananas isn’t about pineapple, or even pizza, not really. Instead, it’s about showing that sometimes the quickest way past a dumb fight is a good meal. Pizza for all, pineapple doubly so.

What Belongs

Seattle will keep arguing about what’s real, what’s right, and who gets to call something theirs. Khampaeng is not here to debate—he and his team are too busy doing it the hard way, putting care into every thom khem at Taurus Ox, every Lao Burger at Ox Burger, and every slice at Ananas. And in the process, he’s adding room at the table for whoever wants in—making space, not noise.