McGregor Pizza & Deli

Feeding the Hangry and the Heroic So there I was—lunchless, hungry, and dangerously close to turning into the kind of person who snaps at motivational work posters. Despite my well-documented aversion to unsolicited human interaction, I found myself at McGregor Pizza & Deli, where society and carbs collide in the best possible way. Why? Because my operating dojo was teeming with surgical tech ninjas—dedicated, scrappy, potentially hormonal, and suspiciously eager to stay after hours for more practice. Or hazing. Depends on the lighting and legal definitions. I needed to feed them before their inner beasts turned on me, so I ordered seven assorted pizzas. Seven. Because apparently I enjoy lifting pizza boxes with a back that served three tours when there was an actual war. Enter McGregor’s staff: fast, friendly, and blessedly unbothered by my general disdain for small talk. Not only did they whip up pizzas that could make a gluten-free monk reconsider their life choices, they also noticed my service-connected Marine Corps-certified spine and kindly carried the pies to my vehicle. Actual heroes in a world of people who still ask if I want to sign up for their rewards program, and I did. And the pizza? Hot, cheesy, meaty, and appropriately sacrificial—each slice laid down its life to tame the dojo beasts. Flavors? Bold. Crust? The right balance of crunch and chew. Sauce? A righteous splash of tangy salvation. Bottom line: McGregor Pizza & Deli is the unsung MVP of hunger emergencies and late-night practice sustenance. If you’re antisocial, hangry, heroic, or just in desperate need of seven pizzas and a little human decency—this is your spot. Five stars. Would return. Preferably with fewer ninjas next time. Full-grown adults get expensive!

Outstanding food. No better pizza or strombolis in Fort Myers. Definitely the beat gluten free pizza too.