Remembering the Perfect Friday Night: Pizza and the Video Stores in the 90s

There was a time, before the age of streaming and instant downloads, when Friday nights held a special kind of magic. A ritual so sacred that nothing—not school stress, not the impending doom of Monday—could ruin it. That ritual? A trip to the local video store, a large pizza, and an entire night of cinematic bliss. For kids of the ’80s and ’90s, this wasn’t just a way to spend a Friday—it was the way to spend a Friday.

The Build-Up: That Friday Feeling

Fridays in the ’90s had a vibe all their own. You could feel it in the air from the moment you stepped off the school bus. The weekend was here, homework could wait (or be strategically ignored), and the promise of two glorious days free from the shackles of responsibility stretched ahead. But the true highlight was the Friday night ritual: gathering your family or best friends for a trip to the most hallowed of institutions—the video store.

The excitement started before you even left the house. Maybe your parents would toss you a five-dollar bill and tell you to grab a movie and a snack, or maybe the whole family would pile into the minivan to make an event of it. Either way, there was no better feeling than walking through those doors, greeted by the familiar scent of plastic VHS cases, stale popcorn, and a hint of carpet cleaner.

The Video Store Experience

Walking into a video store was like stepping into a world of infinite possibilities. Rows upon rows of movie cases gleamed under fluorescent lights, promising adventure, horror, comedy, or action—whatever your mood dictated. For those of us who lived for this moment, it was a carefully curated process.

The Movie Selection Process: A Test of Patience and Diplomacy

First, the New Releases wall. This was the prime real estate of the video store, stocked with the hottest movies from the past few months. If you were lucky, you’d snag a copy of that movie everyone at school had been talking about. If not, you’d start the secondary search—heading into the genre aisles, rifling through classics or hidden gems you’d somehow missed.

Then came the debate. If you were with friends or siblings, expect negotiations that rivaled international peace treaties. One wanted action, another comedy, and someone else was always trying to sneak in a horror movie that your parents would never approve of. You’d stand there, clutching a copy of Dumb and Dumber, while your best friend argued that Mortal Kombat: Annihilation couldn’t be that bad. (Spoiler: It was.)

If you were alone, the pressure was still intense. You only had one shot—one choice that would define the night. You’d pick up a case, flip it over, read the synopsis, put it back, pick it up again, second-guess yourself, and eventually grab something completely different at the last second.

After (finally) making a decision, you’d head to the checkout counter, where the friendly (or slightly jaded) video store employee would scan your selection and remind you to rewind. Maybe you’d grab a pack of Twizzlers or a bag of popcorn as an impulse buy before heading home with your cinematic treasure in hand.

The Video Game Gauntlet

But wait—there was a second, equally important battlefield: the video game rental section. This was where so many of our childhood memories were forged. Unlike movies- which were typically cheaper to rent and therefore easier to convince your parents to splurge on multiple- video games were high stake. The higher price often came with the sacrifice of the movie, and you’d only ever get one. There was no room for failure, it was your primary weekend entertainment. You had to choose wisely.

First, the disappointment check: Were all the copies of GoldenEye 007 already rented? (Yes, they were. They always were.) Then, the backup plan. Did you dare take a risk on something unfamiliar, or did you stick with a safe bet, like Mario Kart or Street Fighter II?

Of course, there was always that one friend who insisted on renting the most obscure, questionable game available—something like Shaq Fu or Bubsy 3D—just to “give it a try.” This often led to collective regret and a silent agreement never to speak of it again.

And let’s not forget the sheer terror of renting a cartridge-based game, getting home, and realizing it didn’t work. The solution? A few desperate attempts at blowing into the cartridge like some sort of video game exorcist, hoping to resurrect it before admitting defeat.

The Pizza Component

But no great movie night was complete without its faithful companion: pizza. There was an unspoken rule that if it was Friday night and you were renting movies, you had to have pizza. It was a law of the universe, right up there with gravity and the rule that if you didn’t rewind your VHS tapes, you were a monster.

Pizza night in the ’90s wasn’t about fancy toppings or artisanal crusts. No, it was about the classics: cheese, pepperoni, maybe some sausage if you were feeling adventurous. Thin crust, thick crust, Chicago style, Detroit style, New York style, personal pan, whatever Porky’s was at the time- it didn’t matter. Pizza was happening.

Another interesting component was the timeline in which the pizza-eating moviefest took place. Some families took to going out for pizza first, using the video store as a form of entertainment all on its own afterward. Other families (such as mine) often called in the pizza for pickup, and went to the video store first. Some people went with delivery, some with DiGiorno (which, depending on whether you believed the commercials, was both!).

The Main Event: Movie Time

Finally, the moment had arrived. The pizza was hot, the drinks were cold, and the VCR was primed and ready. You’d slide the VHS tape out of its plastic case, pop it into the player, and sit through the FBI warnings and studio logos with the kind of patience only a ‘90s kid could muster.

Then came the trailers—yes, trailers! Unlike today, where you can skip previews with the click of a button, watching them in the ‘90s was part of the charm. Maybe you’d discover an upcoming movie to look forward to, or maybe you’d groan at yet another family-friendly comedy starring a dog who inexplicably knew how to play sports. Either way, it set the tone.

And then? Pure, uninterrupted cinematic bliss. No pausing to check your phone, no algorithm shoving recommendations in your face—just you, your movie, your Nintendo game, and the simple joy of getting lost in a story, staying up late those Friday nights before the big day of Saturday cartoons- a topic for another time!

Why That All Mattered:

Today, entertainment is instant. Want a movie? Click a button. Not feeling it? Click another. No rewinding, no late fees, no agonizing over a single choice. But also… no adventure.

There’s something about the video store era that streaming can’t replicate. The excitement of the hunt, the thrill of finding a hidden gem, the heartbreak of realizing someone else got the last copy—it was an experience. Now, we scroll endlessly, paralyzed by too many choices, never quite settling on anything.

Sure, streaming is convenient, but does it give you that same satisfaction as clutching a VHS tape and a greasy pizza box, ready to fully immerse yourself in a carefully chosen movie? Probably not.

Looking back, those Friday nights weren’t just about movies, video games, and pizza. They were about the ritual, the anticipation, the shared experience. They were about the simple joy of physically picking out a movie, of waiting for the pizza guy to show up, of pressing “play” and being fully present in the moment.

So here’s to those nights—the ones spent under the glow of a television screen, hands greasy with pizza, surrounded by friends and family, living in a moment we didn’t even realize we’d miss so much. Because if you were lucky enough to experience a Friday night at the video store in the ‘90s, you know—it wasn’t just a night. It was one of the most cherished experiences we would ever have.