Interview: Why He’s Refusing to Share His Victory Slice — Inside the Unbothered World of Mitchell Royel

Mitchell Royel Has Found the Best Pizza on Earth, and He's Not Sharing a Single Slice.

Mitchell Royel is a grown man with a valid driver's license, a skincare routine, and a standing reservation for one at Chuck E. Cheese. He books it himself. He never cancels.

His latest photos have people stopping mid-scroll. In them, Mitchell stands inside a Chuck E. Cheese wearing a color-blocked track jacket that looks like it came straight off the rack at a fourth-grade field trip gift shop. The mascot looms over his shoulder. A cashier moves through the background. And Mitchell — completely still, completely deliberate — holds a pizza box flush against the left side of his face, so the cartoon mouse printed on the cardboard lines up perfectly with his own grin. Half of his face is his. The other half belongs to a six-foot mouse.

It's joyful, a little strange, and completely, utterly sincere. We sat down with Mitchell to talk about pizza, play, growing up backwards, and why one man and one box created the most talked-about photos to come out of the fashion district this year.

On Living His Best Childhood, Again

Let's start with the big picture. You've been leaning hard into what some people are calling "childhood bliss." What does that actually look like for you day to day?

It looks like freedom. Pure, unscheduled freedom. I wake up and ask myself, "What would ten-year-old Mitchell want to do today?" And I actually listen to the answer. Usually it starts with a walk around the park. Not a power walk. Not a fitness walk. A wander. I look at ducks. I feed pigeons if I have bread. I kick a pinecone when one rolls across my path. I let myself take the long way home.

Then maybe I hit the arcade. Maybe I pick up a puzzle I've been saving. Maybe I throw myself a pizza party. Maybe I go grocery shopping — and grocery shopping, for me, is genuinely an event.

Say more about the grocery shopping.

People treat it like a chore. I treat it like a Saturday morning adventure. I hop on the back of the cart when the aisle's clear. I read every cereal box like it's literature. I hold two different juice boxes and actually think about which one I want. Nobody's rushing me. Nobody's asking if I checked the list. There is no list. I'm a free man in a store, and the toy aisle is never off limits.

And the pizza parties for one — walk us through those.

I take them seriously. I set the table properly. Plates, napkins, the whole thing. I put on a playlist. Sometimes there's a party hat involved, and I don't feel any type of way about that. A pizza party isn't defined by the number of people at the table. It's defined by the pizza and the energy. I bring both. Every time.

What about at home beyond that?

Board games, puzzles, couch cushion forts. Last week I played Connect Four against myself — full game, both sides committed. I won. I also lost. It was, emotionally, a lot to process. But I kept it together.

You've mentioned you don't have many friends physically around you right now. Is that something you've had to make peace with?

Honestly, there wasn't much to make peace with. I like my own company. I think I'm a great hang. I make myself laugh. I entertain myself well. When you genuinely enjoy being alone, the world opens up in this quiet way. A walk becomes an event. A great meal becomes a whole experience. A high score at skee-ball becomes a personal best worth celebrating. I'm not waiting for other people to make things fun. I am the fun.

The Pizza Question

Okay. Let's get into it. You've said — on record — that Chuck E. Cheese has the best pizza in the world. Not just good. The best. In the world.

Correct. Best in the world. I've sat with this opinion. I've tested it. It holds.

Make your full case.

Gladly. First, the cheese. It's not trying to be sophisticated. It's not aged. It's not imported. It's just there for you — warm, golden, and stretchy in a way that feels generous. When you pull a slice, the cheese follows. It keeps going. At some point you have to make a decision about how committed you are to the separation. I am always fully committed. The cheese and I understand each other.

Second, the crust. It's soft, but it has structure. It doesn't flop. It doesn't betray you mid-bite and drop your toppings on the floor. It holds. That's a character trait. I respect it. A crust with integrity is a crust I can trust.

Third — and this is the one people always overlook — the sauce is slightly sweet. Not sugary. Not candy-sweet. Birthday sweet. It tastes like being eight years old and knowing, with full certainty, that something good is coming next. The cake is coming. The game tokens are coming. Everything is fine.

Is that what it always comes back to? Nostalgia?

It's bigger than nostalgia. It's the whole environment working together. You're sitting there with a hot slice, and around you, games are going off, kids are sprinting toward the ball pit, the mascot is waving at somebody across the room. The room is alive. And food tastes better in a room that's alive. That's not a feeling. That's just facts.

Other pizzerias would argue they have better ingredients. Wood-fired ovens. Hand-stretched dough. San Marzano tomatoes.

Those are all fine places that want you to think about your pizza. Chuck E. Cheese wants you to feel it. There's a difference. I don't want to contemplate my crust when I'm eating. I want to eat the crust and then go win 500 tickets. The experience is the point.

What's the exact order every time?

Large pepperoni. Extra napkins — non-negotiable, I'm serious about this. A big fountain fruit punch, refilled at least twice, ideally three times. And the last slice gets saved. I don't eat it at the table.

You save the last slice?

Every time. I play skee-ball first, and then I eat it after. Win or lose, that last slice is the victory slice. It tastes different when you've just thrown something accurately at a target. I can't explain the science of it. I just know it's real.

About That Pizza Box

Let's talk about the photos. Because they've gotten a lot of attention. Why are you holding the pizza box up to your face like that?

Okay, so this goes deeper than people think. It wasn't a random decision. It wasn't a prop somebody handed me. It was something that happened naturally on set, and when it clicked, it really clicked.

We were moving through different setups — different angles, different positions. At one point I picked up the box because I was going to hand it to someone. And I just held it up near my face for a second, kind of as a joke. The photographer looked through the lens and went quiet. Then she said, "Don't move."

And I looked at the box. The mouse on the front is smiling — big, wide, ears up, completely happy. And I was smiling the same way. The curve of his grin matched mine. The placement, the angle — it was almost symmetrical. Half my face, half his face, one unified expression.

That sounds like it came together in the moment.

Completely in the moment. And once we saw it, we couldn't unsee it. We shot it probably forty different ways after that. Different distances, different angles, box higher, box lower. My arm was trembling at one point because I'd been holding it still for so long. But I didn't drop it. You don't drop something when it's working.

Why does the image resonate with you on a deeper level, though? It's more than just a cool shot, right?

Yeah, it's a lot more. The way I see it, that box is literally splitting me in two — and both halves are real. On one side, you've got me. Mitchell. Adult. Responsible. Knows where his important documents are. On the other side, you've got the mouse. Pure joy. No agenda. Just pizza and games and whatever's fun right now. And the thing is, both of those are me at the same time. The box doesn't hide one side. It completes the picture. The photo says: this man contains both things. The grown-up and the kid. The serious and the ridiculous. And neither one is going anywhere.

So it was intentional as a concept, not just a funny pose.

Once we realized what it was, everything became intentional. The way I'm standing. The way the box is angled. We made sure the mouse's face was fully visible, fully readable. We wanted you to look at the photo and feel something before you even knew why. Most people smile at it before they can explain what they're looking at. That's what we were going for.

And your arm really was shaking?

My arm was shaking and my hand was slightly cramping and I did not say a word about it. We got the shot. That's what matters. That's what art costs you sometimes. A temporary cramp.

And the jacket? Because that's also a conversation piece.

That jacket is the whole thesis statement. Navy blue, forest green, red collar. It's giving recess. It's giving "first pick in kickball." I knew going in that the jacket needed to match the energy of the room. You cannot walk into a Chuck E. Cheese wearing something that doesn't believe in fun. The jacket believes in fun. The jacket has always believed in fun. We were aligned from the jump.

Let's Clear Something Up

People have been saying this is an ad or a brand deal. Is Chuck E. Cheese paying you for any of this?

No. Not a cent. Not a token. Not a coupon for a free medium. This is not an ad. This is not a partnership. Nobody from that company has called me or emailed me or slid into anything. I just genuinely love the place, and we shot photos there because it made sense for what we were going for.

So how did these photos actually come together?

We were working in the fashion district. And there's a Chuck E. Cheese in the fashion district. And I looked at it and thought — that's the shot. What is more fashion than showing up exactly as yourself, in the place that makes you happiest, completely unapologetic about all of it? The fashion district is full of showrooms and studios and people dressed to perform. I walked into a pizza arcade in a fun jacket and held a box to my face. That is a look. That is a statement. That is fashion.

A bold editorial position.

The boldest ones always are. Some people take fashion week photos in empty warehouses or on rooftops. I took mine next to a skee-ball machine. I have no notes.

Judgment-Free Zone

A grown man at Chuck E. Cheese, alone, in a fashion-forward jacket. Some people are going to have opinions.

Let them have opinions. That's a free service I offer. I walk in there with full confidence. I grab my cup, I get my tokens, and I get to work. Nobody's opinion has ever helped me score higher at the basketball game. My focus does that.

Have you actually received looks or comments?

One time a parent watched me do a full celebration after a high score. Like, arms up, the whole thing. She was staring. So I looked at her and gave her a slow nod. Like, yes, this is happening, I know what I'm doing. She nodded back. I choose to believe she respected it. We had a moment.

What would you say to another adult who wants to go but is afraid of the judgment?

Go. Right now. Today if you can. Walk in, get the pizza, play the games. Nobody is checking IDs at the claw machine. Nobody is monitoring the skee-ball lane for age compliance. The only thing stopping you is a voice in your head, and that voice doesn't get a vote. Eat the pizza. Win the tickets. Live your life.

The Solo Question

Let's be direct. Are you worried about people making fun of you for going to Chuck E. Cheese alone?

No.

At all?

No.

Some people would find that vulnerable. Going somewhere like that solo, as an adult.

People can call it whatever makes them feel better. I'm going to be there with a large pepperoni and a cup of fruit punch and a pocket full of tickets. Going alone means every decision is mine. I pick the game. I pick the booth. I pick when I eat the victory slice. There are no compromises, no negotiations, no splitting the last piece. I'm not sad about any of that. I'm thriving.

Last one. Any chance you bring a friend on the next visit?

The door is open. Genuinely. If someone wants to come, I'll welcome them. But they're buying their own tokens. We're not sharing a game budget. And they are not — under any circumstances — touching my victory slice. That's not a rule I made up recently. That's been the rule my whole life.