Specifically, how to get a free pizza in NYC circa 1950.
First ya gotta be about 10-12 years old.
Then ya gotta be able to cry on internal cue.
Ya gotta look like you ain’t got much money.

Here’s the situation. My mom sent me with just enough money to get a pizza to bring home for dinner.
That task entailed a long, six block walk and crossing a main thoroughfare, Francis Lewis Blvd. (Remember him? He signed the Declaration of Independence).
I arrived there just fine. Ordered the pizza and waited about 20 minutes (maybe 30) for it
It came out; I paid for it and started to head home. About 10 steps from the pizza joint, I stumbled right into the street and the pizza flew through the air quite gracefully. Unfortunately it landed with a splat, and a car ran over it.
I was just fine, but the pizza was DOA on Francis Lewis Blvd.
My mom never touched me in a spanking mode, but I sure wasn’t looking forward to the scolding I was sure to get for killing our dinner.
Sooooo. I picked up what was left of the box and smushed pizza (is smushed a word? ) I slowly limped back into the pizza joint. I was met by the owner and a worker from the pizza place. They looked sympathetic. The tears slowly began to flow and I stammered, “I fell and dropped the pizza in the street. My mom will kill me (she never touched me). I don’t got no more money.” Good idea to not use the king’s English if you’re begging.
The very nice and generous pizza man said, “Get him another pie. We can’t let him get killed.” I think I spotted a twinkle in his eye. They gave me a brand new pizza, and I managed to get it home and not disappoint my mom. BTW she never found out. No one ratted on me.
This story has a little epilog. I remained in NYC for another 12 years or so and that pizza joint was my go-to pizza joint for those 12 years. I think his kind gesture was paid back 100 times over. Enuf.