Pizzacentric: Recent Episodes
Michael Berman
Grazing horses at the Cliffs of Moher - in pursuit of a photo like this one, I touched my forehead to electrified wire and was shocked. The feeling wore off an hour or so later :-)
"People don't go to Ireland for the food, Petal."
That's what my friend Angela said to me when I'd mentioned, while planning last summer's family trip, that I wasn't excited about the eating options I was finding online: very little variety, + the more differentiated and interesting restaurants were pricy (and their foods looked to be a little fancy-for-the-sake-of-fancy, due to flourishes like balsamic glaze and edible flowers – in other words, shit I'm not fooled by). One notable exception came from food writer David Leibovitz, who had written a story about his stay at the Ballymaloe Restaurant & Hotel – alas it was out of our budget range.
With our Irish adventure now long in the rear view mirror, I have this to say about Ireland: it's a lovely country with warm people and insanely beautiful landscapes and seascapes – and perfectly fine food. Angela was right: don't go to Ireland with food as your primary mission. But also, importantly, don't be deterred by this information. Visit Ireland! Not every place one travels to has to be just about food. That said, truncated as the food choices in Ireland may be in the budget range, I nevertheless continued in my habit of mapping out and over-discussing meals in advance.
Here then, is a brief semi-cohesive account of our eating and travels in Ireland last summer.
An Irish traffic jam, Connemara
We had one day in Dublin, two in Cork, two in Dingle, and three in Galway. Our travel involved a circular route through the southern half of the country in a rented car, with me driving on the left side of (often narrow) roads in chilly and windy, often rainy weather (map of basic route here). I imagined seafood would figure prominently since we were never to be far from the ocean, so I hadn't planned on any Italian food or pizza. But given the repetitive nature of pub menus (and because, of course, I am pizzacentric in my food wants), it didn't take long for us to seek out pizza. It happened on our third night there.
Being used to the great variety and high quality of pizza in New York and, given that I've had good pizza in plenty of places including Italy – and, recalling what Angela had said about Don't Visit Ireland For The Food – my pizza expectations were pretty low. Before I get to details on Irish pizza however, here's the quick skinny on where we went, plus some non-pizza food observations.
Dublin is a fine, very walkable city. It rained on-and-off throughout our one full day there, but we didn't mind – it was the first day of vacation! When we got tired of walking we headed to the Guinness Storehouse, which is awesome. And yes, Guinness does taste better in Ireland.
Hanging at the bar while we waited for a table at Market Lane, in Cork.
We loved our hotel in Cork, the Lancaster Lodge – great location on the River Lee, across a small bridge from Cafe Depeche (a good coffee shop completely themed on the 80s new wave group Depeche Mode) and n acclaimed vegetarian restaurant called Cafe Paradiso (we didn't eat there). Our first dinner was at Market Lane, a good restaurant with super reasonable prices. I had pork confit. It came in the form of a free form crisp patty and had much more going for it than your usual pile of juicy pork meat ("Confit pork shoulder with succotash of flageolet beans and sweetcorn, fennel and grapefruit salad and an apple butter sauce" - €17.95). Our second dinner in Cork was when pizza-crave had struck, and we ate at a place called Uncle Pete's. More on this further down.
The view from our hotel room in Dingle.
Dingle is a touristy town in a breathtaking setting: colorful buildings, old pubs, and a small harbor whose quaintness seemed no match for what was a very choppy sea – I don't recall seeing any boats sailing during our visit. We dined in pubs each of our two nights there. The better of the two was the Marina Inn, where I overdid it by beginning with their hearty and excellent bowl of seafood chowder and then following up with fish and chips (the best I had in Ireland, by the way – and that's saying a lot!). We stuck around after each of our pub meals to enjoy the free, live music.
The amazing steak sandwich at McCambridge's, in Cork
Galway is known for its pubs and music but we'd just come from Dingle and had pubbed it up two nights straight, so here we ate in regular restaurants. By accident, I had booked our stay just outside of Galway, at a B&B in Salthill, a waterside ex-resort area. Galway itself is charming (in that cute-European-city-with-pedestrian-zone-souvenir-shops-and-street-performers sort of way). Salthill connects with Galway by an easy bus ride, and feels like a separate town. It has a commercial area of its own that includes a couple of casinos, several restaurants, and a promenade along the water's edge where families walk, fishermen fish, and young couples hold hands. In Salthill, we ate at Da Roberta's, where we had good pizza. The owner and the staff were Italian and friendly. My favorite meal in the Galway area, however, was a lunch I had at McCambridge's: a fantastic steak sandwich that had fried mushrooms and onions and a "Cashel" blue cheese mayo – wow.
Seafood chowder at the Tigh TP pub, in Ballydavid (Dingle Penninsula)
Every pub menu we encountered had homemade seafood chowder, each chock full of big chunks of fresh seafood, including fish (salmon, cod, or other), mussels, and squid. Every one that I had was superior to every mixed fish chowder I've ever had in the US. For my wife and daughter, who are not as enthusiastic as me when it comes to fruits of the sea (or meat), it was more challenging. One thing worth noting is that every pub that had seafood chowder also offered a soup-of-the-day and in every instance that we asked, it was vegetable chowder. All of them were good, according to my wife – and she knows this stuff.
Of course, I didn't only eat fish and chips, seafood chowder, and the occasional pizza. Breakfast included eggs and a variety of breakfast meats (often more than one type of the same plate; Irish bacon was my fave – it's cut wider than American bacon, has very little fat, and tastes quite similar to American bacon). For lunch and dinner, I had a burger once, salad whenever possible, a "pot of crab" (sadly) only once (it's cold crab meat filled into a small tall bowl, topped with solidified butter, and served with toast and a small salad – wow!!!!), mussels & fries, and the aforementioned steak sandwich and pork confit.
But enough on those foods, right? What about the pizza?!
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Once we settled into our table at Uncle Pete's in Cork and I had had a few sips of Galway Hooker ale, I made a difficult pizza decision: to have a seafood pizza instead of a margherita – my usual first-time pizza quality gauge. Because why the heck not? I was in Ireland goshdarnit!
Uncle Pete's "The Fisherman" is a kitchen-sink-like pie with prawns, spinach, crushed garlic, anchovies, mushrooms, mozzarella, tomato sauce, and grated parmesan. I've been influenced by the Italian way of thinking in that, with certain exceptions (such as the clam pizza at Pepe's in New Haven), mixing fish and cheese is not recommended. And yet here I was in Ireland, somehow drawn to this pizza, and I wanted it most of all out of the many choices on Uncle Pete's rather interesting menu. Likely, it was because I knew it would be fresh and good quality shrimp. I savored every bite of this pizza so much that I couldn't stop asking my non-seafood-eating wife and daughter to please please please try it. They wouldn't.
There was one problem with pizza at Uncle Pete's. The crust has a pale bottom and a soft texture with no character of crust-worthiness. It seemed more like the output from a 1970s home pizza kit (the kind that came in a box) than that of a restaurant involved in the actual mixing and proofing of dough.
I asked the waiter if it would be possible to see the pizza oven. "No, the kitchen is upstairs," he told me, "and it's very tight, and they're quite busy." I'm pretty sure they were afraid of prying eyes (and my camera).
My first theory regarding the soft bottoms was that they were undercooked. But I soon realized it wasn't a good theory. Because, judging from the tops of the pizzas we had (and the others that I espied on other tables), none could have withstood a single moment longer in the oven. The mozzarella had been cooked to maximum brownness.
I 100% forgive Uncle Pete's of its disappointing crust. What was top was excellent, and I would go back in a without hesitation and order the same thing again. By the way, an individual pizza with all of the toppings of "The Fisherman" – would cost at least $20 in the US. At Uncle Pete's, it was €11 (~US $12).
Fast forward to a few days later when I had my next Irish pizza experience at Da Roberta's, in Salthill. I asked the owner if he had a theory about the undercooked bottom with the brown mozzarella I had encountered. In typical Italian-ex-pat fashion, he boasted that his restaurant's mozzarella was imported from Italy, that Irish mozzarella is inferior, and that he's seen this problem with the soft crust/browned cheese in many places. Might Irish mozzarella have a higher fat content and therefore cook (and burn) too quickly, I asked. He would not hypothesize. Italian is just better – that was his stance.
The situation reminds me of the similar conundrum I encountered in Argentina a few years ago, where the pizza mozz was very different from American pizza mozz: it melted out into a very filling thick lava, which I don't commonly see here in the US.
The waterfront in Salthill, near Galway
So where does this leave us? I think the lesson here is: if what's on top of the pizza is good then why not forgive a weak bottom? If the scenery is incredible and nearly every person you meet is well-spirited, then don't suffer the fact that, food-wise, it's not Italy or France or San Francisco. Besides, those seafood chowders were top notch.
I've posted some of my favorite photos from Ireland to my photography website, here. They are captioned, so from them you can see some of the places we visited besides the main towns mentioned in this story.
My dad follows DC-area real estate news and for several years he has warned me that the Pines of Rome might not be around for much longer. Properties adjacent to it, he told me, had been sold to developers. Ultimately, he said, someone would purchase the Pines of Rome’s building because it’s in the center of what could be one big development. I've lived in New York City for many years, so I'm no stranger to the phenomenon of long-beloved restaurants and shops closing not because they aren't doing good business, but because they don't own their buildings and the rents are about to skyrocket.
But last November, when my dad dropped the bomb on me — that the Pines of Rome’s building had in fact been sold — my feeling of devastation far exceeded that which I'd felt for any similar loss here in New York.
If I had to whittle down my childhood food experiences of memory to the most important one, without doubt it would be the culmination of my visits — and all of the food I’ve eaten — at the Pines of Rome over the years.
Enter the Pines of Rome in Bethesda, Maryland, and you feel like you’ve just stepped back to 1975. I refer not only to the decor (wood paneled walls, blue plastic table coverings, vintage posters promoting travel to Pisa, Rome, and the Florence), but also to that amazing feeling many of us of had, of experiencing pizza for the first time — not frozen pizza, but homemade, fresh authentic pizza — and of being a child who gets to eat in a restaurant where the owner and employees there know you (and by they know you, I mean that they know you well enough to correctly predict what you’re going to have before you’ve said anything; of course, they don’t bother to bring you menus).
Even today, decades after first opening its doors in 1972, the Pines of Rome continues to serve excellent pizza and other Italian and Italian-American standards. Its prices remain inexpensive compared to other restaurants in the area (a large pizza is $12.95 and, I swear, it had been $7.50 for at least 10 or 15 years, well into the ‘00s). Many folks — us, and plenty of others included — returned again and again, at least once a week, for decades. (I find it strange that since the late 1980s, food writers have in essence ignored the Pines of Rome. Rarely is anything written about the place, even though it's been going strong, both food-wise and crowds-wise, throughout its existence.
Did the waiter named Pepe, who supported his family and put his kids through college with his earnings from the Pines of Rome (and he still works there) always bring the food too fast? Yes. Did it bother me? Not at all. We learned to order in increments.
Did the Pines of Rome offer all sorts of things that were not on the menu, not on the specials board, but popular with the regulars? Of course.
Was there ever a time when we went there and my parents did not run into people they knew, thereby delaying our chance to sit down and get things underway? No, never. Good thing the waiter was Pepe.
The Pines of Rome’s red pizza is thin, has a crispy bottom, an even crispier edge, and a perfect amount of juicy tomatoes that get built onto the pizza atop the cheese by being pressed in by hand — a method I’ve seen just once before, at Pizzeria Angelo e Simonetta, in Rome. (Click above photo for a peek at pizza-making at the Pines of Rome.)
The Pines of Rome’s white pizza, which is made with two types of fontina (Italian and Swedish — each contributes a different flavor and level of oiliness, according to Marco Troiano, the owner), is as important to the menu as the red pizza is. For some reason, it is cut into squares that get stacked onto a small plate so that — if not grabbed quickly enough — they can stick to each other. Fortunately, the Pines of Rome’s white pizza is too addictive for that to ever happen — especially when paired with strips of garlicky, parsley-laden roasted red peppers, which we like to lay on top (my brother invented this move years ago; kudos, Jeffrey :-).
I have brought Pines of Rome pizzas and roasted red peppers back to New York many times before. But when I heard that the building had been sold, I began to stockpile both pizza types in my freezer — and even more than what would fit in my inadequate New York apartment freezer, in my parents’ otherwise empty basement freezer back in DC. Now, my supply is running low. I may have to road-trip just to replenish. Because the end is near and customers haven’t been told when that’ll be, the final bomb could drop any day. Any day!!
One time last year, I invited my friend Scott Wiener (a bona fide pizza expert — he conducts history-laden pizza tours in New York and is in the Guinness Book for the size of his pizza box collection) over to my place for some Pines of Rome pizza from my freezer. Pretty bold of me, given that I was feeding him pizza out of a freezer. He liked it, though he told me that he enjoyed witnessing me and my love for this pizza as much as he enjoyed the pizza itself. Oh: he couldn’t get enough of the roasted red peppers-white pizza combo. (He wrote about the experience on his own blog, here it is.)
Every meal we’ve ever had at the Pines of Rome has included both types of pizza, those peppers, some salad, maybe some fried zucchini with lemon, and bread. But that’s just the first course. Then we all get mains. My favorite thing to get is the shrimp parmigiana. In fact, this is the shrimp parmigiana by which I judge all shrimp parmigiana. It features three large, butterflied shrimp that have been fried and then baked with a covering of mozzarella and tomato sauce. The shrimp have perfect crunch.
In case you haven’t yet surmised, when we eat at the Pines, I eat to excess. It’s been going on this way for such a long time that I actually blame the Pines of Rome on my tendency to overeating certain foods. It’s an issue that I’ve worked hard at controlling over the years. Now I’m in my late 40s and I’ve developed a sensitivity to overeating and to high acid foods (ie. cooked tomatoes); I can’t get away with eating and overeating the way that I once did. But I’d take indigestion, gassiness, or acid reflux any day over the prospect of losing the Pines of Rome and therefore not being able to overeat there.
The fact is, sadly, I don’t get a choice. I would like to beg Marco to open again in another location. (Maybe he will, but he’s pretty tight-lipped about everything except what’s on special.) I wouldn’t even care if the decor in a new location came out looking plastic and fake — heck, it could look like the Molly Pitcher rest stop on the Turnpike for all I care. But I don’t get a choice. Real estate development means “progress” — or, at least it does for the developers and their investors. And in the case of the Pines of Rome, it's not a question of "if," it's a question of "when."
I hope that people will never lose their desire for real places that aren’t all about money but are instead focused on staying true to what regular people want out of a restaurant: consistency, recognition and conviviality for being a regular customer (if you are), fair prices, and — in the case of the Pines of Rome — red pizza with its crispy edge and hand-pressed tomatoes, and (duh) white pizza with fontina stacked one square atop another such that the pieces would get stuck if not eaten quickly enough. Of course, there’s no chance that will happen. At least not at the Pines.
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THE PINES OF ROME ESSENTIALS
Who: Founded in 1972 by Marco Troiano, currently operated by him and his sons.
What it is: A vintage '70s Italian-American restaurant on a non-descript block in Bethesda, MD. Its several dining rooms are routinely packed with generations of regular customers.
Why go: Dependable and affordable Italian & Italian-American food that emphasizes simplicity. Excellent restaurant pizza. Be sure to have regular ("red") pizza and the white pizza (it's made with two types of fontina). Roasted peppers (appetizer) in conjunction with white pizza is a killer combo. Of the entrees: shrimp parmigiana, eggplant parmigiana, broiled whole fish (type varies), soft shell crabs with pasta (when in season). Also, a solid salad (not fancy).
Why go soon: The building has reportedly been sold, so the restaurant will probably be there only for the duration of its current lease — and no news has been forthcoming about when that is.
Important Tip: When ordering pasta, be sure to specify "al dente."
411: 4709 Hampden Lane (near Wisconsin Avenue) in Bethesda, MD. Tel. 301-657-8775. Metro: Red Line to Bethesda. Map The Pines of Rome. Hours: Sunday - Thursday: 11:30 am - 9:30 pm; Fri - Sat: 11:30 am - 10:30 pm.
Here's a cheery way to start a food story: I had a root canal a little over a year ago. More traumatic than the procedure itself was the realization I had after those three or so visits to each of two dentists: that I now have a “post” and a “crown” instead of one of my upper teeth. Looking at the dentist office poster of what a post and crown actually are freaks me out to this day. And a new reality sank fast into my knock-on-wood previously good physical existence: teeth and people are vulnerable and aging is real. Yikes.
Thus, I was not excited to discover last weekend that the gum above the crown-tooth had become inflamed. Monday, I went to my dentist, just a short walk from where I live. He couldn't tell from an x-ray what it was, and he thought I should return to the root canal dentist, so I did. And that's what brings me to today's story: the office of that root canal dentist (Dr. Justin Cohen; nice guy, by the way) is located deep, deep in Brooklyn on Ralph Avenue – practically Canarsie!
In order to make the ordeal not just bearable but also rewarding there was but one thing to do: have pizza. Brooklyn’s southern reaches are loaded with pizzerias that I assume (and have verified in plenty of cases) are very good. I aimed to make it a 3-slices-in-3-stops lunch, one before the appointment and the two afterwards. I only made it to two, but it was the first place that blew me away.
I had probably passed Armando’s Pizza a dozen times or more over the years, because back when I worked for newspapers I was all around Brooklyn, including Canarsie. But I had never eaten at Armando's, which is located next to the Canarsie-Rockaway Parkway station (the Brooklyn terminus of the L train subway line). It kills me that for years I had missed out on this place. Who knows how many times I must have settled for a so-so Boar's Head sandwich instead of a slice or a square from Armando's. It makes me nuts that instead of sitting in my car dripping mayo onto my lap I could have been hangin' on a shabby stool in front of Armando's stone countertop, gazing through the huge bank of windows that faces all the action on Rockaway Parkway and eating lunch, both at the same time. Oh, the fun I could have had!
To tell the truth whenever I had noticed Armando’s during those years I had not given it much thought. Maybe I hadn’t had the time. Doubtful, but perhaps I hadn’t been hungry or in the mood for pizza. Maybe I had (unfairly) assumed that because it’s right next to a subway stop that the pizza would be just average, the owner one of those dudes that lays low on quality because he thinks location can carry the weight. Maybe it was too difficult to park or there were too many buses to make sense of the options. Whatever the reason, I hadn’t gone. Regrets? Yes. But life goes on.
I read a number of reviews online and had decided, based on the emphatic words of Yelp reviewer Paul E., that I should try Armando's square. According to Paul E.: “The square is transcendent. The regular slice is great, too, but I think the square is what really makes Armondo's special.” Solid rec, right?!
It turns out that Armando’s, like many NYC pizzerias, offers multiple “square” styles of pizza. There's a Sicilian square and a grandma square. The grandma looked much fresher and better than the Sicilian so that’s what I had.
It turned out to be one of the best squares of grandma I’ve ever had! On top, chunky bits of tomato, chiffonade of basil, ample and good fresh mozzarella, and an undercurrent of garlic together hooked me at first bite. The crust is a little thicker than most grandmas I’ve had, but nowhere near Sicilian thickness. Some places make their grandma crust extremely thin, and that works well as long as the pie isn't overcooked (leads to brittleness). Armando’s is chewy and crunchy at the same time: in other words, what I call perfection when it comes to pizza crust.
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After my square at Armando's, I headed to the appointment. I won't get into details about my tooth situation, except to say that I have three appointments still to come and unfortunately, they'll be in Manhattan not Canarsie :-)
Every year we head to DC for Thanksgiving where my parents, my aunt, and my uncle take turns hosting the big meal. The number of guests has varied ever since grandchildren arrived on the scene, and sometimes there are too many people to fit easily into someone’s dining room. My parents will host at their place when it’s not everyone; my aunt is more game and always hosts; and my uncle — since his house is too small, when it’s his turn he gets a rented room in a building in downtown DC and has it catered. This year, though it was my parents’ turn to host, they did it in a rented room. Twenty-five people wouldn’t work with their setup.
While I’m happy, regardless of the venue, to see everybody, nothing beats a home for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving in a rented room doesn't feel as warm. There's no couch to kick back on, no TV for watching football, no kitchen to go into when nobody’s looking to steal a bit of skin or grab a pinch of stuffing. Plus, the presence of catering personnel makes me uneasy. I’d rather not be served by people on Thanksgiving. I find myself wishing that they could be at their homes with their families having Thanksgiving. Also, rented room Thanksgiving has an ending time. When time’s up, everybody must go. No lingering, no post-meal pre-dessert walk to “work off” the food, and no shenanigans — like the time many years ago when everyone except my aunt (it was her host year) was watching football after dinner, it seemed that a long time had passed and we were starting to wonder when she would offer dessert, and then she entered the room carrying a plate with wedges of cake and pie and melting scoops of ice cream just for herself. She sat down and went at it, unaware of our stares. No, in a rented room it’s unlikely that awesome stuff like that will go down.
What can happen in a rented room on Thanksgiving... is mishap. With the earnest goal being to address my unsated wish to have had Thanksgiving in my parents' house and to have cooked the entire meal for the goup, my mom had asked me to make and bring a butternut squash soup. So I made it, with curry and onion. The flavors weren't perfectly right for Thanksgiving but it did taste good. However, no one got to try it because all two quarts of it wound up spilling all over the passenger-side floor of our car across the street from the rented room building. (The building, by the way, is owned by NYU, where I went to college. Getting the room wasn't technically a rental but rather, a donation. In, since I'm the alumnus, my name. Apparently there is now a chair with my name on it somewhere within NYU's vast empire of university buildings.)
I know that not everybody celebrates Thanksgiving in someone’s warm and cozy home. My friend Chris and his family, I remember, were always quite content with their tradition of having Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant in DC called Mrs. K’s Tollhouse. The name itself, perhaps due to the cookies, always sounded fun to me. They did it, he recently told me, because Thanksgiving (and Christmas) were set aside as days to give his mom a break from cooking. I totally get it!
Whenever I express to my dad my hope that an upcoming Thanksgiving will be in a house not in a rented room (and that I'll do all of the cooking), he always says the same thing: it's about the people not the place. I agree, of course, that it's about the people. But, and I always say this and I'm not sure he agrees, the type of place does affect the type of experience had by those people (see paragraph 2).
I say all of this and write on this topic not because I feel a need to prove a point to my dad or to anybody. But rather, because Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and my favorite thing about it is the feeling I've experienced so many times during my life, where it just feels right to be there — when it's a house, not a rented room.
I hope that next time it’s my parents’ turn to host, it’ll be at their house. I would love the chance to proceed with the plan I did not get to execute last year: I was going to bypass making a whole bird and instead just make turkey breast for the turkey, but then also make confit duck legs. As a decent enough cook willing to try just about anything, I honestly don't see enough payoff from roasting a whole turkey — if you aim to cook the dark meat enough but the white meat not too much, it's too complicated. Tradition be damned — I can make the stuffing in a pan with homemade stock. White meat eaters will have turkey meat that's not dry. And dark meat eaters will have crispy and rich duck legs that I think are way better than turkey anway.
It’s a few years to go until that opportunity will again arise and, in the meantime, I can say with certainty that whenever we go to DC for Thanksgiving — whether it's to occur in a house or in a rented room — I'm legitimately happy to be there and to see everybody. On the flip side however, here's a confession. Thanksgiving or not (and if it is Thanksgiving it doesn't matter where it will be held), when I visit DC I'm not there just to eat some turkey (or duck), nor just to see family and friends. All that stuff is great, true. But also on my mind — perhaps dominantly, even, and certainly lately — is something entirely separate from all that: it's my favorite Italian restaurant, the Pines of Rome. And given that the Pines of Rome will probably not be in business too much longer, getting there top eat at every opportunity is severely on my mind.
LAST CHAPTER: (My) Childhood Foods
NEXT CHAPTER: The Pines of Rome
Here’s what kids do: they categorize meaningful occurrences in terms of extremes: up or down, love or disappointment, sweet treats or disgusting vegetables, the best day ever or the worst day ever. As adults we yen for a return to some of those objects or places or people or foods we’d defined as good stuff back when we were younger. Perhaps the best word in English for this sentiment is “nostalgia” – or maybe a string of words along the lines of “relational food memories of fondness.” I imagine in Russian there must be a single word that expresses it just right. I asked my friend John. He speaks Russian. He said he didn’t know such a word.
I’ve just spent a few minutes sitting still, eyes closed, thinking back to my childhood and trying to recall which food memories have stuck with me through the years. Here is a list of those foods, along with some updates on their status in my rotation:
* Bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on a fresh onion roll (or toasted whole wheat). While I'd like to relive this sandwich with some frequency, at age 47, with slowing metabolism and concern for overdoing it with saturated fats, I don't have it too often. When I was in my 20s I worked near 23rd & 5th, and this was the breakfast that I rewarded myself with every Friday morning. I picked it up from Eisenberg's – which, by the way, is still there and, I know for a fact, still makes sandwiches (of all sorts) right. Photo above shows my daughter at the Eisenberg's counter having a bacon & egg sandwich (sans cheese) on a non-onion roll, 2013. But yes, Eisenberg's still has onion rolls – and I love that about them!
Tuna salad sandwich on lightly toasted seeded rye with a piece of lettuce (classic prep = tuna, mayo, celery, pepper, squeeze of lemon, optional chopped pickle or relish). While I still appreciate the simplicity of tuna salad served with few accoutrements - heck, put it on white bread even! - I have graduated from Bumble Bee to fancier tins (or jars) of (superior) Italian tuna packed in olive oil. Also, over the years, I got into making tuna salad with a number of add-ins. The above photo shows Greg & Gary, the "Christmas Twins" of Amsterdam (both now deceased; photo by Bob Bunck). Why this picture? Because I ate at their boutique/coffee shop at Ultrechtsedwarsstraat 67, in 1996, and was blown away by their rendition of the tuna sandwich. The tuna salad itself was spicy (prepared with cayenne pepper, I think), and was served grilled panini-style with slices of prosciutto and some sort of cheese on the inside. Absolutely incredible.*
* Breakfast of toast with butter, or butter/jam; or a bagel with butter or cream cheese and sometimes smoked salmon. One of my favorite foods from childhood, toast with butter and jam holds a strong position in my daily eating repertoire (I have it several times a week). Nowadays, as part of my "plan" to eat healthily, I'll often substitute the butter or cream cheese with mashed avocado (to which I add salt, pepper, and a drizzle of good olive oil; it's delicious – and quite filling). But nothing beats butter. A good rule of thumb when shopping for butter is to skip Land O'Lakes or Breakstone's and go European. The best bang for the buck in NYC seems to be Kerrygold. It comes from Ireland and is made from the milk of grass-fed cows. It's great. If you'd rather buy "local" butter, I've found that Vermont Creamery's "Cultured Butter" (it comes in yellow tube-shaped paper wrapping) is also excellent – though it does cost more than Kerrygold. For reasonably-priced jam I recommend the offerings from St. Dalfour, a French brand that instead of sugar uses the juice of grapes and dates for sweetening, and contains fewer grams of sugar per serving (11) than most other jams. I'm fond of their Wild Blueberry (shown above) and Fig flavors.
My dad’s cheeseburger subs. When I was growing up, my dad didn't cook often. But of the things that he made, his cheeseburger subs stood out as superb. It seems like such an obvious thing, the cheeseburger sub, but I ask you: when's the last time you had one? I can say that in my life, decades went by between the cheeseburger sub nirvana of my childhood and 2014, the year when this food returned to me in the form of an exquisite and urgent food vision. Fortunately, its absence was easy to undo. To keep cheeseburger subs on the "healthy" side, I use turkey instead of beef, but everything else is pretty similar to what my dad did. The process is easy: caramelize onions and cook small burgers in olive oil in a pan; slice bread lengthwise and dig out most of the inside; squiggle ketchup on one half of the bread, mustard on the other; tightly fit burgers onto the bottom half, add a layer of the onions and a liberal amount of shredded cheddar cheese; cook open-faced in oven until the bread's edges are crisp but not dark and the cheese is melted; remove from oven and add cold ingredients (I just use pickles – specifically, BA-TAMPTE Half Sours that I slice by hand – but lettuce and tomato also work); close it up, slice, and serve with hot pepper relish on the side. Note about above photo: behind that nearly-completed cheeseburger sub stands a bowl of homemade oven fries, which I make often. To make them, skin and then cut potatoes to about 1/4" thickness (but into any shape you like), dry them with a towel, hand-toss with salt pepper and olive oil, add to a parchment paper-covered pan in a single layer, and bake at around 425 degrees F. You'll need to turn them half-way through + frequently check their progress, taking care to remove pieces from the oven as they finish (you can add them back to reheat just before serving).*
Clam Chowder, Baked Stuffed Shrimp, and the whole rest of the menu at Crisfield’s, a restaurant in Silver Spring, MD. Crisfield's is a classic seafood restaurant that has been making signature dishes from the Chesapeake canon of cooking since 1945. Whenever we ate there when I was a kid, everyone did their own thing for the first course (that said, most of us gravitated toward the clam chowder, steamed clams, crabmeat cocktail, or oysters on the half-shell). But when it came to the main course, we all ordered the same thing: "Baked Stuffed Shrimp," which is a trio of large butterflied shrimps broiled with "crabmeat imperial" and breadcrumbs on top. There might have been six of us eating together at once and it was always the same: when the main course arrived, it was six orders of Baked Stuffed Shrimp. Though I may try to prepare this myself some day, the first item from Crisfield's that I have attempted in my effort to relive childhood from my home kitchen in Brooklyn is their clam chowder. It's New England-style, but it's unlike any New England clam chowder that I've had anywhere. It's made without milk or cream (which, in my opinion, usually take over the flavor of a chowder a little too much) and is quite peppery. (Instead of cream, owner Bonnie Swanson once confided in me, they incorporate mashed-up potato for thickening.) The above photo shows Crisfield's clam chowder, which I brought back up to New York at the end of Thanksgiving weekend last year. Roll over it to see a bowl of my homemade stuff. Mine's more yellow because I used Yukon Gold potatoes.*
Steamed crabs (Old Bay) Opening these crabs and finding the meat is certainly not child's play – it's best accomplished with a sharp knife and a wood mallet. Plus, the crabs themselves have sharp points that can definitely cut you. But I know for certain that as soon as I had them for the first time (probably at around age 7), I was hooked. Because they're not easy to eat and because there's a low yield of crabmeat relative to the effort required to retrieve it, crabs work great as a party food. Here's how it went whenever I threw "crab feast" parties in New York: dozens of friends and strangers sat together at long tables and spent a good hour or two just eating (and drinking). People with crab experience helped those who hadn't a clue. Unfortunately, the price for these crabs (you should only use male Blue Crabs) has gone up, up, and up – so I don't eat them too often. Do you see the flecks of spice on the crabs in the above photo? That's Old Bay Seasoning, an iconic spice blend known to anyone from the Maryland-Viginia-DC area. It's made of celery salt, red and black pepper, and paprika. Even people who don't eat crabs can enjoy Old Bay by purchasing a bag of "Crab Chips," which are Old Bay-seasoned potato chips made by Utz (available only regionally, I think). One time, when I was watching "The Wire," one of the characters went into a store to pick up a bag of "Crab Chips." I immediately wanted some.*
Shrimp cocktail When we went out to dinner to a nicer restaurant to celebrate a birthday, shrimp cocktail was usually on the menu – and I often ordered it. The shrimp of a shrimp cocktail need to be cold, crunchy, and not too small. And oh, cocktail sauce matters a lot. Even the child version of me was unfond of sickenly-sweet renditions of cocktail sauce. Luckily, there's a simple fix that usually works: add horseradish. The above photo shows the prominence of shrimp cocktail in our family's Thanksgiving buffet of appetizers. My uncle, who used to own restaurants in the DC area, began the tradition years ago, and it's been integral to our family feast ever since. (Why is a woman in the photo wearing black tie? I'll get to that in the next installment of the "Food Imperatives" series.)*
* Pizza, in particular the white & red renditions at the Pines of Rome, a restaurant in Bethesda, MD If there is one restaurant that epitomizes food's impact on me during childhood, it is the Pines of Rome. The Pines will be the subject of an entire installment in the Food Imperatives series, so for now I'll just say that the white pizza (shown above) stands out as unique. Unlike the white pizza of New York pizzerias – which is usually made with ricotta and/or mozzarella – the Pines of Rome uses fontina. It's incredible. And the red pizza at the Pines is also excellent: it's thin with a crispy edge and bottom, and it's made with the tomatoes on top of the cheese. Though New York beats DC hands-down for the quantity of good pizza places and the range of styles available, I have devoted an illogical amount of time searching for Pines of Rome-type pizza in New York. The closest specimen I found was at Cristardi’s — a small place without a sign that was on a residential street a near where I live in Brooklyn. (Cristardi's closed. Read about it – and other defunct pizzerias – in this Pizzacentric story.) Cristardi's pizza was, by appearances, entirely different from that served at the Pines of Rome. But one minor detail was enough to bring me back. In this case, it had something to do with the tomatoes, which appeared as small bits within a sauce that poked through the cheese. So yes, I'm often all about pizza and yes, that love of pizza comes from within me. But I credit the Pines of Rome with having gotten this whole thing started. And I continue, whenever I visit DC, to pick up several whole pies from the Pines to transport back to my freezer. Then, on special occasions (or simply because I feel I deserve a treat), I heat some up and have it. It's instant-childhood-revisited. In fact, I have some in my freezer now. Hmmmmmmmm...
* Peking duck with pancakes, scallion, and hoisin sauce If you're a person who eats duck, then I think you'll agree that there's nothing more gratifying than the combined flavors and textures contained in a pancake rolled with Peking duck, scallion, and hoisin sauce. In case you don't know, the duck has two parts – skin and meat. Together, they contribute chewiness and crunch. Hoisin sauce, I don't even know what it is. But combined with the richness of the duck and the freshness of the scallion, well altogether there's a lot of balance going on (in texture and in flavor). There was a span of time when I was a kid when we did Sunday night dinners at Tony Cheng's Szechuan restaurant in DC's (small) Chinatown. I don't think we got Peking Duck every time we ate there. It was (and remains) more of a special occasion thing. Thus, every time I walk through Chinatown in New York and pass windows filled with beautifully lacquered ducks hanging from hooks, I crave Peking Duck but, in general, I don't stop in.
* Waffles for breakfast Obviously, there’s not much good to say about Aunt Jemima. The blueberry waffles are meh and, like all of the other commercial syrup products out there, the syrup has no real maple. And yet these were the waffles that I ate as a kid – and I liked them. Fast forward to adulthood. Honestly speaking, I don’t eat waffles too often. They make for a pretty heavy breakfast. But when I do have them (which usually occurs when my daughter has had a friend sleep over), I make them homemade and I use the recipe that I thought had come from my friend Emily’s grandma, but apparently (I've recently learned) did not. The procedure involves separating eggs, beating the whites until they form peaks, and folding them into the rest of the batter. And oh, real maple syrup is without question worth the splurge. It lasts for a long time in the fridge, it’s totally natural, and it’s delicious. Purchase it at Trader Joe’s for a gentler price than what you’ll find at a conventional grocery store. (The recipe for (Not) Emily’s Grandma’s Waffles is posted here. Give it a try – they come out amazing.)
* Fried chicken from Roy Rogers or Popeye’s A couple weeks ago I grabbed a wing from a Popeye's on the NJ Turnpike (see photo above). It was just awful. Either Popeye's has gotten worse or I've become less forgiving of fried chicken since childhood. There was barely any chicken to the thing, and I don't see a reason – since these days I try to keep my eating of unhealthy foods to a minimum – to involve myself in making a meal or a snack of fried batter. If I'm gonna have chicken nowadays, it'll have to be from a restaurant that's known for good fried chicken like Charles' Country Pan Fried Chicken, or Bonchon for deep-fried – or, the excellent pan-fried chicken that my friend Chris makes.
Among the other items I've thought of that I'm not writing about in detail here are:
*** Old diners with luncheonette counters with stools
- Steak, fries, and sauce from Le Steak, a restaurant in Georgetown, DC. It was all about the sauce.**
* My mom’s salmon cakes with applesauce on the side
*“Toll House” chocolate chip cookies made with crispy edges and chewy interiors
* Fried mozzarella with “anchovy butter” at Geppetto, a restaurant formerly in Georgetown, DC
-&-&-&-
I listed the above foods in no particular order. Obviously (since this is Pizzacentric), I would make pizza from the Pines of Rome my top choice. The reason I've avoided a hierarchical listing is that each of these foods holds a place in my heart and each has become a part of my adult psyche – which is a complicated thing that I'm not qualified to decipher. Also, I hate "Best of..." lists. Sufficed to say, whether it's pizza or shrimp cocktail or plain old toast, every time I reëncounter these foods as an adult I am brought back to childhood – and I feel happy.
Here's something interesting. Apparently, there's a special connection between the pizza of one’s early childhood and one's personal definition of what pizza is. I just did a search for “Pizza Cognition Theory,” a real thing invented by Sam Sifton. It proposes that “the first slice of pizza a child sees and tastes … becomes, for him (or her), pizza.” I wouldn’t know how to psychoanalyze people’s pizza preferences, but I think it’s fair to deduce that Sifton is onto something important here (the search on Google compiles 3,980,000 results, so obviously others give the theory credence too — and, obviously, pizza is important to many people).
I’d like to add to it though, because (1) I honestly don’t think that one’s childhood pizza stands alone as the standard-bearer throughout a person’s life (in all of its variations (just talking cheese and tomato pizza here), pizza can be so different — yet at the same time, one minor similarity can suffice as a way-back machine for returning to that euphoria delivered by pizza during childhood). But also, (2) that you could say the same thing about all other foods. If I loved hot dogs a lot, shouldn't there be a "Hot Dog Cognition Theory" that explains why the style of hot dog that's most idyllic to me stems from my earliest hot dog-eating experience? And the same could go for granola and frog's legs and chocolate chip cookies and french fries and peaches canned vs. fresh. So perhaps a better theory title would be something along the lines of: "The Each to His (or Her) Own Food Preference Theory."
LAST CHAPTER: NEW DIET
NEXT CHAPTER: RENTED ROOM THANKSGIVING
Coffee was the biggest culprit in my regular not-low-acid diet.
For the first time in my life a certain ridiculous thought had entered my head: that a day could come when I might no longer be able to eat pizza. I had gone to the doctor to report on some what-I-thought-were minor symptoms (heartburn and stomach cramp) — and because of this she suggested some changes to my diet. I guess by the age of 47 the chance that one or more of those commercials for previously-irrelevant medicines that you see on TV might suddenly become relevant. But I’ve worked hard, especially in recent years as I’ve grown older, to treat myself decently. Near the top of my list of motivations (aside from the obvious, that I want to stay healthy) is my wish to preserve my ability to eat pizza. So even the slightest warning from a doctor about my diet causes me fear and frustration. Apparently, despite the steps I’ve taken, perhaps I have not adequately forestalled aging.
Dentally, I had to get a tooth implant last year, second from the back top left. Lord knows, Steve Martin’s “Pizza in a Cup” notwithstanding, liquid pizza is not the pizza I wish to look forward to. I’ve also reduced my intake of high-fat foods. In fact, throughout the past two years especially, because I joined a food coop where excellent farmers’ market-quality produce is sold for low prices, I’ve taken my fruit and vegetable consumption to record heights. I’ve also eliminated junk food and most processed foods from my diet (though I sure would like to revisit my old after-school snack treat, Mama Celeste sausage pizza, once again). These days, if I’m hungry between meals I’ll eat some dried figs, salted pistachios or cashews, a banana or pear, or some carrots.
The aforementioned doctor visit occurred in early November 2014. She asked a lot of questions about my diet, when and how much I eat, and my general level of stress. She told me to stop eating high acid foods for two months in order to give my system a rest.
Okay, high acid foods, what are they… right?
Well, it turns out the list of foods high in acid comprises just about everything I like: coffee, alcohol, sparkling water, spicy foods, cooked tomatoes, mint, chocolate. I’m certain she left plenty more items off the list because she knows about me and pizza. I imagine she saw a look of absolute appall on my face. “You can’t really mean this, what about sometimes?” I protested. “If the tomatoes start off uncooked and are only cooked on the pizza in a hot oven for like two minutes, is that okay?” I queried. “Can I drink kombucha?” I delicately asked her. She had no opinion. I don’t think she knew what it is. Just lay off high acid foods, she reiterated.
I committed — and I sought solutions. Ginger ice cream for when I craved a sweet. Water as my only cold beverage. To replace coffee I switched to decaf; but I still experienced cramps so I switched to caffe d’orzo, Italy’s version of decaf (it’s made from barley) (a quick search reveals that decaf has as much acid as regular coffee). I had tacos but added no hot sauce – a first for me. When my wife made chili for Sunday dinner, it was “white” chili (very good actually – she made it with ground turkey, cannellini beans, quinoa, green salsa, chicken stock, cumin, and kale; here’s the recipe she based it on). Pizza? It would have to be white.
After two months of feeling no symptoms, the doctor gave me the green light to one-by-one add back foods. Be mindful of how they make you feel, she said.
When I think hard on the list and how much of a role these foods actually played in my life, I've gotta figure that coffee was the biggest culprit – well, that and overeating – when it came to antagonising my gut. My habit had been to drink one or two ‘6-cup’ moka pots’ worth of the stuff daily (about 10 oz coffee per pot). So, since the warning from the doctor, I’ve stayed off of coffee and I’ve been pretty firm on it: in the last eleven weeks I’ve had coffee only twice.
I have added back a moderate consumption of alcohol. I don’t drink too much anyway, and it hasn't bothered me. Spicy foods, I’ve dabbled here and there, but I have not loaded up on the habañero as I was once prone to do.
In the pizza category I’ve been okay too. After a solid two months of no cooked tomato, I’ve had pizza a handful of times and, at most, felt a little cramp afterwards. It seems the warning is: pizza’s ok, but don’t have it too much. Last weekend we ordered a grandma pie from Cotta Bene, one of my favorite places that delivers to me. It was the first time I'd eaten more than a slice (or a square) at a time since October. Oh, actually, I'd had a slice and a square from Di Fara the weekend before. I'm gonna have to watch myself – I can't even keep track.
The cramp I feel when I feel it is every so slight. But who the heck knows what's going on in there. I'd rather play it safe and keep my pizza consumption under control. Perhaps the silver lining is that less of something makes you appreciate it more. NEXT CHAPTER: CHILDHOOD FOODS
Last week the news came down that Streit’s Matzo factory, which has been producing its crisp Jewish flatbreads on the Lower East Side of Manhattan since about 1915, is leaving New York sometime this spring. They've sold their site for an undisclosed amount of money. Developers will probably turn it into some sort of glass-façaded enormous condo building with apartments "Priced from the two millions.”
People, myself included, get seriously sad about old places closing, the general purging of Old New York, and how expensive the city has become. In the case of Streit’s it’s important to acknowledge that most of the “Jewish” Lower East Side abandoned ship long ago. True, some of the old businesses remain (Katz’s Deli, Israel Wholesale Judaica, and Global International Menswear — to name a few). And yes, the Tenement Museum stages period reënactments that make for a marvelous history lesson about how people lived in the area during the period of time from the late 19th through the mid-20th century. But most remnants of the old neighborhood by now exist solely in the form of the buildings themselves and the old signs still intact outside of what are now trendy boutiques, bars, and restaurants.
I have no special passion for matzo except that I eat it, somewhat agnostically (mainly because I like it) during Passover each year (it’s good with butter or as the “bread” for a tuna salad sandwich). It reminds me of Carr's Water Crackers, but it's sold at a much lower price. I feel slightly connected to Streit’s itself only because I lived half-a-block from it back in 1990, when the neighborhood was still quite dangerous. In those days I heard gunshots often, the corner deli ran a numbers racket, and tiny plastic drug bags and vials were always visible along the gutters and sidewalks; I departed for good on April 14, 1991 when my apartment was broken into and burned down by heroin addicts who also robbed my roommate and me of our electronics.
Despite my (unrealistic) desire for all the old places to always remain, I find it difficult to be disappointed in the Streit's family for deciding to leave Manhattan. To state that they’ve remained true to their roots for 100 years and so cut them some slack if they should decide to leave totally understates the level of devotion they’ve had to their business, their location, their employees, their immigrant roots, and to the Jewish and local communities. Throw in the fact that the business persisted for decades in the midst of true danger — and seriously, who can blame them for leaving town. Cash talks, people walk: I get it.
**
I’ve been reading Naomi Klein’s “This Changes Everything,” an excellent book about the environmental crisis. We need major changes to the way we live and how we conduct the global economy. First and foremost — and this really is no joke — we need to replace the digging for oil and gas and coal with the harnessing of sunlight and wind and waterflow. A path does exist by which all of our energy needs could come from these types of renewable sources.
So when an old factory like Streit’s decides to shut down the old plant and move to New Jersey, this is an opportunity. The current ovens burn at 800 degrees all day long during most days of the year and are fueled by natural gas. Streit’s could decide to build itself a new factory that is fueled entirely by renewable energy sources. Likewise, whatever gets built by developers on the current site of Streit’s could incorporate all sorts of modern technologies (such as well-sealed passive house construction — which leads to tremendous decreases in energy inputs for cooling and heating — and solar power panels on the roof). In other words, a duel-construction situation of this magnitude (new factory + new condo building) has the potential to make immediate change, and to show others how truly modernized facilities can operate efficiently and be green at the same time. I called Streit’s to ask them if this is something they would consider. It didn’t sound as if they’d given the question of energy supply even a minute of consideration. But they should.
**
Meanwhile, there’s still some time remaining to see for yourself this marvel of a factory. It turns out that anyone can visit Streit’s and see firsthand how matzo gets made. And it’s free! You just have to call to make an appointment.
I visited Streit’s in 2013 as part of my research for a book I did about great New York places to visit with children, and was immensely stricken by its beauty. To state the obvious: places like this factory don’t really exist anymore in New York City.
The two parallel ovens each employ a conveyer system to bring in uncooked dough and send out the finished matzo— 75 feet and two minutes later. As the cooked matzo emerges, a couple of employees break it apart, portion it into correct quantities for boxes, and load it as stacks of squares onto racks that move along a mechanical track to an upstairs area where workers fill and seal matzo boxes, group them into multi-packs, and package those into bigger boxes for distribution. It’s fascinating to watch — so much so that when I was there I made a short video of some of the action. Mesemerizing stuff. Click the top photo to see it. (Larger version viewable here.)
**
Streit's Matzo Factory & Retail Store: 148-154 Rivington Street, at Suffolk Street. Free tour of factory must be scheduled in advance. Tel. 212-475-7000. Tour hours are Monday-Thursday 9am-3pm. Retail store hours (to purchase matzo goods) open Monday-Thursday 8:30am-4:30pm. Map Streit's. Final closing date TBA, but it will be sometime in the spring of 2015.
Focaccia di Recco prep at La Manuelina, in Recco.
I learned last summer, on the day when we had only an hour or two for a stop in Recco because we were on our way from one place in Italy to another, that one must eat focaccia di Recco (also known as focaccia col formaggio)straight out of the oven and not from an old pie that has already cooled to room temperature. This revelation occurred to me in the corner bakery located just next door to my first choice bakery that was, surprisingly, closed when we got there. But in Recco, a Riviera beach town that boasts none of the fanciness for which nearby places (such as Portofino) are known, focaccia di Recco (and farinata, another pizza proxy from the area) is on offer everywhere. Seriously, everywhere. It's a thing.
As I stood in that next door replacement-bakery (which is called Focaccia d’Autore) feigning conversation in Italian with the man in charge, who was happy to share with me details about his focaccia di Recco – like, which latteria does he get his stracchino from (he gave us each a spoonful to try) – I started to sense that the shop had become crowded behind me and grew concerned that I was holding things up for others.
The owner (or is he the manager?) of Focaccia d'Autore explains some of the pizza-like
things made in his shop. Click for detail of focaccia di Recco being made.
What if a hypothetical-Italian bakerygoer were to ask me why I was taking so long at the counter? Could I convincingly explain Pizzacentric, and that I consider this food a serious pizza proxy, and that it's virtually unknown outside of Liguria?
It turns out I need not have worried. Those other people were not waiting for me to finish talking so that they could order. They were waiting for a new (fresh and hot) focaccia di Recco to get pulled from the oven. I had ordered from the one they didn't want.
Focaccia di Recco, which is essentially two layers of thin unleavened dough surrounding an interior of an Italian melting cheese called stracchino, shares more characteristics with pizza than with other, more commonly known variations of focaccia: it's thin, not spongy; and when cooked becomes blistery — even crunchy in spots — with oozy cheese. However, unlike pizza or other focacce, when focaccia di Recco cools, it loses its overall crunch and the cheese loses its ooze.
The people behind me in the bakery knew this. Kristin had figured it out too – from watching those other people. I had no idea.
"I'll go back in and get a piece from the fresh one,” I said, after she had explained to me all of this.
Then Julia, who’s 8, chimed in: "Let's go, Daddy. Don't go back in!"
The beach in Recco.
I didn’t insist. Julia is not a fan of standing around waiting while I speak with restaurant owners. Also, there was one other focaccia di Recco lunch planned for the day – so I had to figure I'd be ok.
It took only a minute to walk to the beach, where we celebrated the warm salty air and the fact that we had finally made it to this area, which we had long discussed visiting but had not yet done.
Focaccia di Recco service at La Manuelina (Click for food close-up)
We finished eating and then drove about five minutes to arrive at place #2, La Manuelina, a swankish white tablecloth restaurant where one must order focaccia di Recco as a whole pie (there are size options) from suited-up waiters who slice and serve it from a tablecloth-laden side cart, kind of like they do Peking duck at fancier Chinese restaurants or how at retro old school places they still might make your Caesar tableside. In other words, it's a level of service not normally affiliated with the distribution of pieces of pizza. I love Italy.
Manuelina's focaccia di Recco, hot out of the oven, is undeniably exquisite. Go have it if you can.
**
We found focaccia di Recco on the menu in places in towns beyond Recco, including at Sciamadda in Moneglia. Scroll through slideshow for other "production" photos at Sciamadda, including Good place!
Perhaps a trip to Italy is not in the cards for you at this very moment and yet you are now craving focaccia di Recco in a big way. I understand. That was me last spring when I discovered this webpage while researching where to spend three unplanned days on our upcoming trip. Not only did the photos there directly influence our decision to choose Moneglia, a seaside town near Recco and near the famed Cinque Terre National Park, but they inspired me to make focaccia di Recco at home in New York, even prior to our travel.
The stracchino at Buon'Italia (rectangular packages). At $7.50 per 250g, it's not exactly cheap – you'll need 2 or 3, depending on the size of your pan – but it's a showstopper with dinner guests.
If you live in or are visiting New York, I discovered that you can purchase focaccia di Recco from the bakery counter at Eataly. But be warned: it’s not good. Unless you’re luckier than I’ve been, it will have been sitting out for a while, and will be soggy. I also question whether they pinch the top dough in spots before baking — which prevents interior steaming and creates a crispier top surface. Dunno. Maybe they do and it's just been out of the oven too long.
They also serve it at Rosemary’s, a lovely and good Italian restaurant on Greenwich Avenue in the Village. I haven’t tried it there. However, based on this picture, it looks yummy – but totally not correct. It appears thick (more like the focaccia most of us are used to) when it's supposed to be thin – I imagine they've used yeast.
Thus, if you can locate either stracchino (or crescenza, which works as a substitute), make focaccia di Recco yourself. I’ve done it. It’s not very difficult.
Before you begin, first locate and purchase the cheese, and then watch a few videos to see how it's done.
In New York, you can purchase stracchino at Buon’Italia, the excellent Italian food import store located in Chelsea Market. You can also find it at Eataly but it’s more expensive there. I have found crescenza in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, at Caputo’s Fine Foods.
First, watch the video posted on this page. It’s in English, and the guy does a good job demonstrating. However, the recipe he provides is a unclear in terms of how much flour to use – I prefer a weight measure (not volume) for flour. And he doesn’t use enough cheese (of course, that's easily remedied).
Next, watch the demo on this webpage. It’s in Italian, but it’s pretty easy to figure out what he’s doing. My only correction – yes, I'm apparently now more of an expert than this Italian dude – would be to leave it in the oven a minute or so longer :-).
And finally, watch this video from the Consorzio Focaccia di Recco col Formaggio (!) to see how these things are made large scale. Beautiful, right?
**
Recipe Focaccia di Recco (adopted from the Consorzio Focaccia col Formaggio di Recco)
Ingredients:
500 g (17.5 ounces) Caputo “00” (or all purpose) flour
2.75 dl (9.25 fluid ounces) room temperature water
0.5 dl (1.7 fluid ounces) top quality extra virgin olive oil + extra for the pan & for drizzling on top
15 g (1.5 teaspoons) fine sea salt + extra for sprinkling on top
750g stracchino (or crescenza)
One 25 cm x 35 cm (9.5” x 13”) sheet pan with raised edge
Process:
Mix together flour, water, olive oil, and salt to form a soft (but not sticky) dough. It should take about 2-3 minutes with mixer and dough hook, or about 4-5 minutes kneading by hand.
Form dough into a ball and wrap in plastic wrap. Allow it to rest at room temperature for at least 30 minutes (or up to 2 hours).
Preheat oven to its top temperature, at least 500 degrees F (260 degrees C).
Brush pan with a thin covering of extra virgin olive oil.
Unwrap dough, divide in half, and roll out to form a rectangular shape. Continue to roll out dough (or, if you’re comfortable hand-stretching — use your knuckles to gently stretch it, mindful of the ultimate shape you need it to be) until it will exceed the perimeter of your cooking pan.
Gently lay the stretched dough onto the pan and crimp it along the pan’s edges. Don’t worry if there’s extra dough, you’ll cut it off later.
Evenly distribute onto the stretched dough walnut-sized dots of the cheese in a grid pattern.
Stretch the second piece of dough, following the same strategy as the first. Cover the dough and cheese with the stretched second dough, crimping it along the pan’s edges to make a seal. You will notice that there are air pockets between the two layers of dough, wherever there isn’t cheese: this is good.
Use rolling pin or pizza cutter to remove excess dough by rolling it across the top of the pan’s rim. Pinch and tear at the top dough in 4-6 spots. Drizzle top with extra virgin olive oil (best quality) and sprinkle with fine sea salt.
Bake in oven for 4-8 minutes. Focaccia is done when top is nicely browned in several spots but not burnt.
Remove focaccia from the oven. Slide onto a cutting board or leave in pan. Slice and consume immediately.
**
Notes:
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Recipe is geared toward inexperienced pizza/focaccia makers. If you’re confident in your rolling-out skills, you can use a somewhat larger pan.
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I always end up with extra dough, so recipe may be enough for two focacce (or 1 + a second at half-sheet size) if you have enough cheese on hand. Roll it out thin like the pictures/videos, don't be stingy with the cheese, and see what's left.
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If you can’t find stracchino or crescenza, you could attempt recipe with other cheese types that has a similar meltability – something like ricotta or a mild brie would work. Choose based on your taste preference but if possible, avoid strong tasting cheeses since they could overpower the flavor of the good olive oil.
-
Focaccia di Recco is, apparently, a pretty old food. According to the foodtravel.it website, it's been around since at least the 12th century.
**
In Italy:
Focaccia d'Autore:Via Assereto Biagio 11, Recco (+39 0185 76610).
Ristorante La Manuelina: Via Roma, 278, Recco (+39 0185 74128). Open Thursday - Tuesday (closed Wednesday) 12pm-2:30pm and 7:30pm-10:30pm. Website. La Manuelina also operates a more casual-looking focacceria; it's only open for dinner, I didn't go there.
In New York (for stracchino):
Buon'Italia: 75 9th Avenue (in Chelsea Market), New York (212-633-9090). Open Monday - Saturday 8am-9pm, Sunday 9am-7pm.
Scott Wiener, owner of Scott's Pizza Tours, introduced Slice Out Hunger to New Yorkers in 2009.
**
Stats are in from Slice Out Hunger's 2014 event, which was held on October 8 at St. Anthony's Church at Sullivan and Houston Streets, in Manhattan.
~ ~ ~
1,000 people through the door.
8,659 tickets sold at $1 each.
50 participating pizzerias donated fresh pizza pies that sold for $1/slice.
Pizza came from all 5 boroughs + Hoboken, Jersey City, and Caldwell, NJ.
$30,000 raised to benefit Food Bank for New York City. That's 150,000 meals getting delivered to people who need them.
~ ~ ~
Bravo to everyone who participated!
Here's a slideshow of photos from the event:
To access previous years' Pizzacentric stories about Slice Out Hunger, go here.
~~~
Official info about Slice Out Hunger and the Food Bank for NYC is available at:
Slice Out Hunger
Food Bank for New York City
Corner of Henry and President Streets
One rainy day last autumn while out walking my dog in my neighborhood some strangers approached me with a pizza question.
“Excuse me,” one of them said assertively and with a German accent, “Can you recommend a place for pizza?”
LOL, don’t you know who I am? I thought to myself. I’m Pizzacentric, and you’re so lucky to have found me!
But questions beget questions not answers, and that’s especially true when it comes to pizza recommendations.
What type are you seeking? How are you getting around and how much time do you have? Does ambiance matter? Where have you already been? Do you prefer old-school or trendy? Coal, wood, or gas? Low-moisture or fresh mozzarella? Must the menu have salad? Do you care about price? Do you care if there’s a wait? How does the fact that it’s raining figure in?
As this barrage of questions and contingencies (plus my own pizza memories and cravings) entered my head all at once, I froze.
They were now looking at me funny, as if they thought maybe they’d asked the wrong guy for a tip. But I’m the right guy, I’m the right guy!
I needed to get myself together.
Lucali popped into my mind first. It’s a well-known sit-down place with magnificent pizza, an ambiance bordering on romantic, and an owner who stands at the helm and is involved in the making of every pie. But alas, it was a Tuesday and Lucali is closed on Tuesdays.
Then, I thought of Sam's. It’s an old school place down the street and Louie the owner could make for a fun experience for these guys (these strangers who I don’t even know – why would I think this?!). I adore Sam’s (more for Louie and the decor than for the pizza these days but that's okay – for instance, if you go there with kids and the kids get up too much he might threaten to tape them to the chair with duct tape; that's his sense of humor) but – Oh shit, I realized to myself, Sam’s is closed on Tuesdays too!
Court Street near Douglass Street
“Have you had a slice of Grandma? Or are you interested in trying Upside Down pizza? There’s House of Pizza and Calzone just a few blocks away. It’s not fancy but they do a good job with these square-shaped versions of pizza. And they have a–”
“Well can you tell us if it’s too far to walk to Grimaldi’s? We came here to go to Lucali but it’s closed.”
Okay, now I got it. Of course. These were places they’d read about. Duh. Well at least they’d concluded that Lucali's was the top choice. Smart. They’d just failed to note that it’s closed on Tuesdays.
“You can walk to Grimaldi’s in about 20 or 25 minutes,” I told them. “But you know, a half a block away from Grimaldi’s is Juliana’s, which is actually owned by Patsy Grimaldi — the original Grimaldi. He sold it to the current owners years ago, was then completely out of the pizza business, and has now reopened with a new name in his old space. I think his pizza is actually a tad better than Grimaldi’s–”
They couldn’t have been less interested in the details I was sharing with them. No matter that I was touching upon one of New York’s most fascinating pizza stories – a saga that has spanned decades and involves multiple families and possibly secret threats and coercions. They didn’t even care that it’s better pizza. They just wanted to go to the place with the longest line.
**
Union Street between Hicks and Columbia Streets
But what about Lucali – the place the Germans didn't go to – and specifically, its owner Mark?
I asked Mark, when I ran into him the other day, which pizza in the ‘hood does he prefer, and he said, "I like all of them. Really, I eat at them all."
I wanted specifics, thinking to myself, where would he have sent the Germans.He agreed that House of Pizza and Calzone is excellent and also mentioned that lately he’s been enjoying the slice that they serve at South Brooklyn Pizza (a side door operation out of a German restaurant located right at my corner). “It’s a good slice. It’s crispy,” he said
I could have pushed him for more details about the Pizza of Today in Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill (our neighborhood) but there wasn’t time. He was holding onto a (badass) banana seat bicycle outside of the school where both of our daughters go, someone had opened the gate, and the mad rush to the blacktop had begun.
Anyway, it’s Mark’s memories of the Pizza of Yesterday that people (including those Germans) ought to hear. In me, his memories inspire extreme hunger and longing for the past. To anyone from NYC over the age of 30 who remembers what old neighborhoods with regular places were like, nostalgic feelings and hunger are also inevitable. And for the newbies and the tourists – wherever they’re from – Mark’s pizza memories should serve as a reminder that urban commerce evolves over time (not always for the better) and that many of the foods that we celebrate today have histories rooted not only in the culinary training of proprietors, but also in those people’s distinct food memories.
Oh, and back in the day, shit was definitely cheaper (by "shit" I mean "good shit").
**
A dichotomy of Old and New, at the corner of Court and Sackett Streets
Here then, is the roll call of pizza memories from Mark Iacono’s childhood:
Around the corner from where Mark and his family lived was LaBarbera Bakery, a place that – in addition to bread – offered square-shaped pizza pies that it sold throughout the day, including in the early morning. School days for Mark often began when, as he overslept, his brother Chris would scrounge up whatever change was around and walk around the corner to pick up some of those “crunchy on the bottom, soft on top” room temperature squares. “He’d go get the slices and then on the way back, as he passed our house, I would meet him outside and we would walk to school together,” Mark told me. [LaBarbera Bakery, 577 Henry St., RIP 1989.]
After school on Wednesdays, Mark and his brothers (with friends in tow) headed over to his Aunt Catherine’sfor her “phenomenal sheet pan pies that were kind of like the Grandma [style of pizza].” [Aunt Catherine moved to New Jersey and no longer makes pizza.]
The rustic squares at Cristardi’s – originally a small restaurant and I think later, shrunken to a tiny room marked by no signs, on a side street behind a drugstore – were crispy platforms for showcasing a chunky tomato sauce that “was just awesome.” Cristardi’s was around when I first moved to the neighborhood. I loved it! [Cristardi’s, 214 President St., RIP 1999.]
Italian social club window on Henry Street, between Union and Sackett Streets - "SORRY"
For thin crust round pies and slices, Mark’s favorite place was The Gloria, its coal oven pizza a “blistery soupy mess” that he somehow managed to eat while walking. “It was a really old and dingy pick-up spot. The pizza was kind of like mine, but more soupy and a lot more charred. They made it in a coal burning brick oven and it had big blisters. Big big blisters. You know, they would leave them in. They wouldn’t pop them [like other places do]. I remember you would get these slices that were so out of whack. You could get a real tiny, tiny sliver or you could get a big huge slice. The whole pie was like that – and I could never understand why. I thought there was something wrong with the guy, you know, like how he didn’t take geometry in school or something. Now, after cutting pies [for a living], I understand: it’s the way you want the pizza to look. You know, your presentation is a big part of it, and [so you] avoid cutting through the big bubbles. You want the pie to look nice so you cut around the bubbles, but then you can get all these crazy-sized slices. That’s what I think. Because some of the slices at The Gloria were crazy. Some of them were rectangles, not even triangles! [The Gloria, 384 Court St., RIP circa 1980.]
Leonardo’s, which made thin-crusted brick oven pies, was Mark’s favorite place for a sit-down experience. You walked through a spacious espresso barroom with old timers standing and drinking coffee, and past the pizza oven and to-go counter, to enter a windowed dining room with a doorway that led to a grapevine-canopied patio. Leonardo’s made solid no-frills pizza with crunchy and charred edges and a chewy interior. Its closing coincided with Mark’s decision to open Lucali and, because he knew the owners, he obtained their espresso machine (and some tips on pizza-making). The space (the building is still owned by the same family) became a Dunkin’ Donuts/ Baskin Robbins combination restaurant. [Leonardo’s, 383 Court St., RIP 2005.]
Louie and his dad, Mario
The one remaining old spot in the neighborhood is the aforementioned Sam’s Restaurant (238 Court St.), a full-menu Italian joint that unlike most old Italian restaurants in New York, still serves pizza. The owners, Louie and his father Mario, in their refusal to gentrify along with the neighborhood, present gratifying doses of vintage decor and Brooklyn attitude – also vintage. This place perseveres despite an apparent culture war that would pit the neighborhood’s newest residents (and high priced restaurants – black truffle chicken for two for $65, anyone?) against the old neighborhood people – folks who, by the way, one can still encounter in front of certain newsstands and ex-flower shops, debating the merits of one slice vs. another and other important matters. Oh, and if it’s a snowy winter and there’s been a run on rock salt – call up Sam’s and see if they’ve got any in stock. Oh #2, if you bring a stroller to Sam’s, be prepared to fold it up and stow it near the coat hangers. Oh #3, Sam's has great gnocchi.
**
Quality control: Mark Iacono observes all 360° of the scene when making pies at his outstanding pizza restaurant, Lucali.
You could substitute other foods or any number of goods typically sold in unfashionable mom & pop shops for “pizza.” The disappearance of these kinds of places is alarming. No question, some places close because people get older and want to retire and there’re no kids interested in keeping things going. But for many, the formulation is simply math: if the rent is too damn high, how can a business survive selling pizza slices for $2.50 a pop?
In truth, that’s what I think motivated Mark to switch from his relatively-stress-free career as a stone fabricator to pizza shop proprietorship. While Lucali’s prices are higher than those at a typical slice joint, the pizza there is, I think, worth the extra money (a large plain pie is $24 and should serve two adults; it's made with a sublime cooked tomato sauce and mozzarella di bufala).
Most everyone who works at Lucali grew up in the neighborhood, and many are the kids of Mark's childhood friends.
Mark's story has been written many times but is worth recounting briefly. He saw one day that the old Louie’s Candy Shop on Henry Street was vacant. He ran into Louie's wife and told her that if there wasn’t a renter yet that he, Mark, would be interested. When they said yes, Mark didn’t yet know what he would do with the space. Thankfully, he made the connection between keeping at least this one little part of the neighborhood in neighborhood-hands and his unabashed/unpretentious love of pizza.
Rather than get into all of the blah blah about Lucali's food, I simply propose that you go there – whether it's for the first time or if you've been there many times. It doesn't get tired. Just be sure – especially if you have time while you're waiting for a table – to walk around the neighborhood and look for clues to its Italian past. If you want, track through the addresses to see what's become of Mark's favorite pizza places from the past. Original addresses are included in the above list. Oh, and be sure you don't attempt any of this on a Tuesday!
**
Though it's located in a quiet residential neighborhood several blocks
from the subway, people come to Lucali from all over – including even... Germany.
Lucali:575 Henry Street, between Carroll Street and First Place, in Brooklyn (718-858-4086). Open 6pm-10pm Wednesday-Monday (closed Tuesdays); arrive early.
Sam's:238 Court Street, at Baltic Street, in Brooklyn (718-596-3458). Open 12pm-10pm Wednesday-Monday; (closed Tuesdays); great old school Italian.
Jim Lahey (right), at Co.
Naples-style pizza is an extremely popular style in the US these days. Yet, but for one story I posted about a single experience I had a couple summers ago in Naples itself, I’ve remained mum on the topic. That’s because I don’t always love it. Too many times I’ve left disappointed (pizza is often soggy) and feeling a little ripped off.
Since there’s not much difference between Naples-style pizza and many other similar ones that don't count as Naples-style because they don't conform to the rules of Naples-style – rules that state which precise types of flour, tomatoes, cheese, yeast, etc. can be used, how dough can be mixed, that only wood can be burned to fuel the oven, and more (you can read them here) – I’ve created a new broader, more inclusive category: Fancy Pizza.
Co.
Pizzacentric hereby defines Fancy Pizza as follows:
1. Shape and Size: A round plate-sized single serving pizza ample enough in mass to comprise a lunchtime or dinnertime meal where not more than one-third is leftover upon completion of said meal by an adult person with a “decent or better” appetite. Diameter should not exceed 14 inches. Outer crust perimeter (aka in Italian, cornicione) is raised “at least a little” and can lack puff but should exhibit “discernible" softness at least in spots.
2. Method and Ingredients: Pizza is cooked in an oven whose heat source is at least in part (but preferably 100%) derived from anthracite coal or wood of any type. Pizza is made exclusively with “high end” ingredients. All types of natural flours are permissible but preservatives and dough conditioners are not. Cooked crust should exhibit “exceptional” flavor and complexity. Tomatoes other than San Marzano are permissible and, in fact, encouraged (see 2a. below). However, tomatoes should not be sweetened with refined sugar. Neither artificial coloring nor preservatives or other chemicals can be used. Only minimally-processed cheese is permitted (fior di latte/fresh mozzarella, for example). Processed cheese, including “low-moisture” mozzarella, is not permitted.
2a. Tomatoes: Tomatoes from Campania (Italy), including those approved by the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana, are discouraged (but not disallowed), pending scientific investigation into possible links between their consumption and the unusually high incidence of cancer in the area where they are grown (which may be due to contamination of the soil by toxic substances introduced from longterm dumping of garbage in the region; this is true, see this story).
3. Price: Fancy Pizza should cost more than pizza from a corner joint, an old school tavern, or a “regular” pizza restaurant. Specifically, a single serving margherita (sauce and cheese on dough) should cost at least $12, preferably $14 or more. In practice, fancy pizza is for a nice meal out, though to be worthwhile its price should be “justified” by good quality. Those who prefer to “slum it” may wish to seek less expensive styles; however, it is possible to simultaneously “slum it” and have Fancy Pizza: simply locate a Fancy Pizza Food Truck. (Click herefor margherita prices at several NYC restaurants.)
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Am I negative on the Fancy Pizza?
Well, on the one hand, pizza should not be expensive. In Italy it originated as a cheap food for poor people and when it came to the United States it was consumed primarily by poor immigrants. Even today, in New York and throughout the US, it remains one of our most affordable eating options. But on the flip side, extraordinary foods often cost more.
Another issue is that oftentimes these little pizzas are (as mentioned above) soggy in the center. It’s a shame, in the opinion of Pizzacentric, that pizza so beautiful to behold – with its silky and soft crust etched with dots of char and a pillowy raised perimeter, made from good ingredients – that it cannot hold itself together. It’s like a precocious child who, in spite of grownups' expectations, has lost his/her composure.
Don’t get me wrong. With even the soupiest and least supportive of these pizzas, I’ll eat mine and gobble up your scraps, too.
Byt it is possible to avoid Fancy Pizza that's soggy. And not only that, you can find plenty of Fancy pies well worth the price. I love when places use non-Italian ingredients or put together interesting combinations of toppings. General advice: avoid margheritas (why spend $15 per person for cheese and tomato?!).
—
Mathieu Palombino behind the scenes at Motorino (East Village).
My favorite two Fancy Pizza places in New York are Co. and Motorino. Each uses creative combinations of good toppings and good ingredients overall. Each produces sturdy pies of excellent character. And each does great things with cheese.
I asked each place how they achieve such great crust-sturdiness when the pizza at so many other Fancy Pizza restaurants can be soggy.
According to Matthieu Palombino, owner of Motorino, “soggy in the center is what happens when there is too much sauce or [if] you are using a topping with a lot of moisture [such as] mushrooms.”
He further explains that, “You cut the pizza in 4 or 6 [slices] and sauce slips under the pie, soaks the center, and gets it soggy. The center of the pie, if covered by a blanket of ingredients, will only cook from the bottom, [thereby] preventing the dough from cooking on the upper side.”
Makes sense!
“The key to a crisp pizza,” wrote Mark Barbire, chef at Co., “is a hot surface and the right balance of ingredients so that they do not perspire moisture. Case in point: if we overload a Bosciola pie with crimini mushrooms or too much buffalo mozz it will turn out soggy. It is the hardest pie to execute because of this. Balance of ingredients is key to a perfect pie!!”
So... a soggy bottom is avoidable!!!
It is thus the opinion of Pizzacentric that places that produce soggy Fancy Pizza either don’t know how to make the bottom sturdier or are not committed to doing so. Some owners have said that this is how pizzas are in Naples and that they make them this way on purpose. And it's true: even the pizza I had in Naples (tomato and mozzarella di bufala) had a soggy bottom. But I don’t believe this is how Naples pizza has always been— nor do I consider center-sogginess a desirable trait. Early 20th century writings describe Naples pizza as a food that people ate while standing up, employing a fold-and-eat tack. So something's wrong. You can’t do a fold-and-eat with soggy pizza!
Perhaps bottoms lost sturdiness over time. Could it be that as daily demand for pizza increased the pizzaioli raised the heat, lowered the cook time, and/or became less careful with the distribution and weight of topside ingredients? I don't know.
In Italy, at least there’s this saving grace: pizza is not expensive!
But enough on soggy centers. Because actually, some New York pies of this style – pricy as they are – are well worth the money.
—
Motorino
Motorino's Pugliese on my car in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
I am usually frugal at lunchtime, but I decided one recent day to splurge for a Pugliese, a sausage and broccoli pizza that is as good as any Fancy Pizza I’ve had anywhere ($17; offered only at Motorino’s Brooklyn location). It works because Motorino’s crust (dots of char, sturdy bottom, thin outer-edge crispness surrounding good puff) is excellent, and because what’s on top presents a sauceless tour de force of awesome flavor.
First it’s the heat of chili flakes, next the mustardy bitterness of broccolini, then the spice from the bits of sausage. The cheese, a cream-soaked mozzarella called stracciatella, tames the heat enough such that most people, I think, should be able to handle it. The result: each punchy element stands up to the next and, together, they represent the kind of assertion that only a person with innate cheffiness could pull off. That’s who we’re dealing with here at Motorino – Mathieu Palombino is a dude who’s been trained as and has worked as a chef, and who knows how to put things together just right. He also, it turns out, brings to pizza an approach to cheese sourcing that’s rather rare in the pizza world, at least in the US: he limits his mozzarellas to those that are made fresh – really fresh.
—
Some of New York's best mozzarella made from curd was at Joe's Dairy on Sullivan Street.
It closed last year but they're still making cheese and supplying it to some local businesses.
I must digress for a moment. There is a common misconception with regards to the meaning of fresh mozzarella. All around town you see Italian shops and gourmet supermarkets and pizzerias carrying something called “Fresh Mozzarella,” many of which are good, others that are just so-so, and then some that have the wrong texture or are too tart. Luckily, pizza is forgiving. Even cheese with the wrong texture works on pizza. Most people wouldn't know the difference unless the good mozz and so-so mozz were facing off in a taste test.
But, what is truly fresh mozzarella? It’s when a producer takes milk and turns it into curd and then into cheese without delay. Most of the places making fresh mozzarella are starting with curd, not milk. (Curd looks a bit like a mozzarella sponge or a coarse tofu.)
And who can say the provenance of the curd?
How long has it been since a its source-milk came from a cow?
Was the milk turned into curd right away or did even that get delayed?
Once the curd was made, how long was it before the distributor picked it up?
How long did the distributor have it before delivering it to the mozzarella maker?
And what about the mozzarella makers? How much curd do they buy at a time and how many days pass between its receipt and when they sell it as cheese?
Don’t get me wrong: many places make excellent mozzarella this way. And I know that we can’t have cows in New York City, so the only way to make mozzarella here is to use curd.
But here: check out the above absolutely MESMERIZING video to see mozzarella being made straight from milk. If watching it does not cause you to book tickets right away to Italy because the urge to taste it is so darn strong… well… you need to rethink your priorities.
—
Back to Motorino. There was a reason I diverted the discussion to freshness of mozzarella. A few years ago, I asked Palombino about the different mozzarellas he uses. He wouldn’t disclose the source (though I now know) (but it doesn’t matter). At the time, he had said:
“It is not a mozzarella made from curd. It is a mozzarella made from milk."
And then he went on to explain why he decided against making mozzarella himself. "Yes, some guys are able to make an okay mozzarella. But I believe cheese should be made by a cheesemaker. I buy the charcuterie from the charcuterie guy and I buy the cheese from the cheese guy. You cannot [make] the same mozzarella as the guy that [has made it] for the past 20 years. It just won’t happen.”
When Motorino first came onto the scene I learned of it the same way many did: reviews in the paper. Sam Sifton, in the New York Times in 2010, wrote: “[Motorino] serves the city’s best pizza.” 'Nuff said to get me there.
At Motorino: Straciatella
But Motorino, it was clear, wasn’t just about pizza. From the get-go Motorino has been using very cool subspecies of mozzarella on its pizzas. Cheeses, that over time became de rigueur amongst pizza shops and gourmet stores and especially with the foodies, but were popularized in NY first by Palombino. Specifically, burrata and straciatella.
(Burrata is a mozzarella ball with cream in the center. Straciatella is a cream-soaked mozzarella.)
(Yes, fancy places in NYC were already plating these cheeses pre-2009 – and true, they’re all cheeses with roots in Italy.)
At Motorino: Brussels Sprouts (left) and Margherita (right).
Oh, one other thing: Motorino has a quite un-pricy lunch special: for $12, you get pizza and a salad.Pugliese is not a choice – nor is the clam pie (another favorite of mine) – but there are four to pick from, including an excellent pizza featuring brussels sprouts.
—
Co.
At Co.: Popeye (left), Flambé (right).
I have a harder time deciding what to get at Co. than at any other pizza place. It’s difficult because I adore pizza that goes beyond Italian, and Co. goes beyond tomato and cheese in the exact direction I love: French.
Ahh, Gruyère. French grocery stores have it in all sorts of forms: shredded, cubed, and hunks, and incorporated into many processed products — it’s as popular there as is cheddar in America. But here in the US gruyère comes up mainly in the context of French-type foods and not usually with pizza.
Enter, Co. Famous bread maker Jim Lahey offers French flavors on at least three of his pizzas and I love them all. Every one of them – and plenty of the other pizzas on offer at Co. — are well worth the Fancy Pizza premium you’ll pay (sadly, there's no lunch special at CO.).
Jim Lahey at Co.
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Flambé: With this variation of tarte d’Alsace (aka flammenkuchen), a smoky-salty-fatty-chewy assertion of lardons conspires with sweet caramelized onions, the earthy char of a crust cooked well (and slightly risen around the perimeter), and a luscious blend of mozzarella and béchamel. It’s a savory masterpiece. I’ve long wondered why no New York pizzeria has endeavored to offer this combination on one of its sharable pies. That place, if it got it right, would be on my short list for sure!
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Popeye: I’m very fond of this pizza, which first appeared years ago as a special at Sullivan Street Bakery’s original Soho location. It’s a tomato-free pie topped with a ton of spinach, garlic, gruyère, mozzarella, and pecorino. The spincach enters the oven as a tall pile on a stretched-out dough and emerges wilted but charred on top in spots. It's then finished with olive oil. Incredible.
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Ham & Cheese: This pizza certainly presents gruyère in a way that would sate your average French person, but it also dual-functions as that classic lunchtime sandwich ham and cheese, except that it’s a pizza. Besides the ham, it gets gets pecorino, gruyère, mozzarella, prosciutto, and caraway seeds (which contribute a note of rye bread flavor — so smart!).
Normally I’m a stickler for democracy of ingredients when it comes to pizza. I like it when each element occupies the right amount of space and does not impinge upon the rest.
So here’s the truth about the pizza at Co.: some might find that the crust takes a bit of a front seat to the rest. But seriously, if anyone has earned the right to do something like that, it’s Jim Lahey. He not only produces some of the best bread in New York City (Sullivan Street Bakery has two NYC locations: Hell’s Kitchen and Chelsea (on the same block as Co.)), but has also written cookbooks that turn artisanal bread-making into a set of feasible home recipes. Thus, when Co. allows for relatively heavy charring, I embrace it. It’s not burnt, it’s just another flavor. To play it smart, go with a pie that offers enough of a punch on top to ensure that Pizza Democracy does in fact prevail.
Jim Lahey hooks up his chef with a quick shoulder massage.
I asked Jim why he decided to take his pizza beyond Italian flavors. His answer:
“I love riffing off of other people’s food. So every time I eat something that I like, usually it finds a translation somewhere else. It will find another place to be expressed as another idea. Because nothing is new, at the end of the day. Everyone is reproducing things that already exist.”
How's that for humble?
Motorino:349 East 12th Street, between 1st and 2nd Avenues in Manhattan (212-777-2644); 139 Broadway, between Bedford & Driggs Avenues in Brooklyn (718-599-8899); two locations in Hong Kong. See Motorino website for menu, hours, and other information.
Co.:230 9th Avenue, at 24th Street in Manhattan (212-243-1105); See Co.'s website for menu, hours, and other information.
CAUTION: Some writers may present their opinions via a clouded lens.
Some restaurant reviewers have gotten out of hand. With ease of publication at an all time high thanks to the internet, anyone can pose as an expert– and whenever they choose to, they can easily put their words out there. I suppose it’s up to readers to decide whose writing they like and what to trust. But these days there’s often no accounting for taste, and it may even be that eaters get fooled by writers who bestow undeserving praise or false negatives upon certain restaurants – cases where the opinion professed is simply not a just dessert. Maybe ulterior motives are at play. (Cue "Dragnet" sound clip.)
Certain stories, in particular celebrity-related ones, those that utilize the fame of a featured personality, or those that cover trendy foods du jour (Cronuts: a Cro-Magnon obsession?) can defy logic and go viral whether for their trashiness (or their trash-talking-ness) or because people, myself included, sometimes we don’t want to think too much.
But thinking is worth it! The better food writers are those who are either (a) extremely knowledgeable about food, and thus their words can inform and educate; (b) generous with their discoveries and willing to take the time to report on them; or (c) unique in their voice and angle such that each piece they write becomes more of a story – perhaps even a parable – about life, instead of merely a catalogue of cliche details about certain preparations.
Many writers combine any or all of these traits.
I love the food writing of Calvin Trillin. Though many of his stories are from decades ago, they resonate today just the same as they must have at their time of publication. Especially impressive is how Trillin's stories barely scratch the surface when it comes to describing the foods themselves. Rather, they detail the sometimes-madcap, often-elaborate lengths that he and those in his network of food enthusiasts went to in pursuit of the best rendition of something. The stories are hilarious. And so well written that I have found myself on more than one occasion, googling restaurants in Kansas City, names of people and bars in Pennsylvania, and church-run clambake festivals in New England, to see if they’re still on the scene today, 20-40 years since the stories’ initial publication. (Seek out “The Tummy Trilogy,” for a compilation of Trillin’s food writings.)
Sadly, Trillin is an exception, not a rule. Most food writers focus on the food itself with barely a hint of detail about what might have been a rich experience leading up to or accompanying that food. In one regard these kinds of stories work well enough: they inform readers about new places to go to, different foods to try, or recipes to cook. But then there are the reviewers who get things wrong, or worse, seem as if they have an axe to grind for no good apparent reason.
Best to taste for yourself!
As a regular person who likes to write about food and my food adventures, I can attest to the occasional temptation to write negatively about a restaurant (or a food, or a writer). It’s a simple way to imbue a story with passion, especially when something upsetting goes down. Because really, who isn’t in the mood for a little food justice?!
Case in point. When for the second time in a row the crust of a pizza I ordered from a certain shop near where I live was severely undercooked (despite dark char on the bottom), I wanted to write about it. And, when in the second of those two deliveries, the pizza arrived ruined with all the cheese and toppings off to the side in the box as if the delivery guy had carried it vertically, and the place didn’t even offer me a partial refund – I wanted to write about that. But I didn’t. Actually, I did tweet it, thinking I could influence the customer service I didn't feel I was getting, but then I deleted the tweet. Customers can vote with their wallets. I’m well aware of how difficult and risky the restaurant business is, and I certainly don’t want to play a role in the ruin of some person’s (or people’s) livelihood.
Larger, corporate-owned, and braggart restaurants might be an exception – they benefit from enhanced marketing budgets and financial reserves. For instance, when New York Times restaurant reviewer Pete Wells wrote a scathing review (comprised only of questions) of TV celebrity Guy Fieri’s restaurant Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar in Times Square, it somehow seemed fair. Guy Fieri, whose fame is linked with his on-air celebration of America’s great “Diner’s, Drive-ins, and Dives,” ought to have allowed his name to be attached to this restaurant only if he honestly thought that its food would have passed muster if subjected to his own show’s vetting procedure.
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But when writers take down mom-and-pop restaurants: to me this is shameful. It came up the other day when I happened upon a Facebook post by Maggie DeMarco, the daughter of Di Fara Pizza owner Dominic DeMarco. She had written a response to “Not A Love Letter: Di Fara Is Home To New York City's Junkiest Pizza Slice,” a cruel and misinformed article by Katie Parla that had appeared on the blog, foodrepublic.com (the blog is owned by restaurateur and celeb-chef Marcus Samuelsson).
I happen to be fairly knowledgeable about Di Fara pizza and its history, myself having been a customer there since the late 1990s. Over the years I have had the opportunity to interview the owners and watch them prep and cook in the kitchen. They even allowed me to report on the weights of ingredients that they use when making their pizza – a level of transparency that reminded me of what Gerry Lombardi once told me about the way restaurant reviewers used to work: they would visit the kitchen to see for themselves which ingredients were being used to make the food. It goes without saying that I’ve also spent (with enjoyment) countless cumulative hours watching Dom make pizza. Of the many “facts” reported by Ms. Parla, many were dead wrong.
The “block” mozzarella that Di Fara uses is Polly-O, not Grande. (I assume by “block,” Ms. Parla meant the low-moisture mozzarella. Di Fara, having tested many of these types of mozzarella, selected Polly-O – and not even the restaurant-sized version that the distributor wants to sell them and is cheaper, but rather, the same 16-ounce hunks that you and I can buy in the grocery store.) (If Ms. Parla observed Grande-branded containers in the shop, perhaps they had held Di Fara’s fresh mozzarella (fior di latte). But what’s wrong with that? How many corner pizza shops use fresh mozzarella standard on all pies anyway?)
I believe that when Ms. Parla referred to Di Fara’s usage of that cheese as a “flaccid shaving,” she was implying that there isn’t a lot of cheese on the pizza. Di Fara actually uses plenty of cheese and, if the quantity of mozzarella didn’t wow her, she might have paid attention to the nearly-equal amount of grated aged cheese that Dom adds. This amped-up use of grated cheese (these days, parmigiana, though it has changed from time to time due to fluctuating prices), is what in my opinion gives Di Fara pizza its unique flavor.
Ms. Parla: Of course the basil is washed. Only a venomous writer would attempt to turn such generous snippage of fresh basil into a negative. Ms. Parla: Di Fara doesn’t use Berio olive oil, they just have a tin of it on display – and who cares?! Ms. Parla: gas powered pizza ovens are always opened and closed repeatedly – they’re designed with thermostats that work to keep the temperature as steady as possible. Ms. Parla: calling Dom’s sourcing “lazy” and his product “banal” is mean and wrong – and anyway, what is sloppy about Di Fara’s crust? And finally, Ms. Parla: if you’re going to bring up price, which I concede is higher at Di Fara than at most other New York-style pizzerias, it’s only fair to mention how many people your purchase fed - two pies and four slices for $75? – that’s enough food for six people. (Also, I would imagine that Di Fara charges the prices it does not only because of their ingredient costs, but because one guy makes all the pizzas (as you pointed out, it’s not fast) and the place is open just five days a week – do the math.)
I just don’t understand why, if Ms. Parla didn’t like her pizza experience at Di Fara, she just didn’t come out and say she didn’t love it. She could even have gone so far as to say she thinks the place is overrated. But to get so many facts wrong? And then to intertwine opinion with those wrong facts to double-amplify the wrongness – and then to ice the cake with words like “lazy” to describe a 77 year old man who still works… this is what I mean by reviewers out of hand.
What exactly, Ms. Parla, could be your problem with this pizza or with the man who made it??
(Click photo for short video from 2012 when Di Fara allowed me weigh pizza components; larger one on Vimeo.)
Di Fara doesn’t need my rescue here. They’ve got legions of fans following every story that comes out about the place, every update that Maggie makes to the Facebook page, and when they get a chance to eat there, they gaze at every whimsical move that Dom makes while painting his next canvas of dough with those “squalid ingredients” (Ms. Parla’s words). Why? Is Di Fara a cult thing? Not in my opinion. I think Ms. Parla is the cult thing, trying to get attention by throwing invective in the face of some hardworking pizza people. Shame on her!
So, back to food writing. I think it’s great that there’s so much information out there about food and restaurants. Here in New York, I’ve long been a huge fan of Robert Sietsema, because he has intrepidly taken the time to discover food places, one at a time, in each of the outer boroughs. I owe my knowledge about many of my favorite places in New York to him, including… Di Fara Pizza, which he first wrote about in 1998. (Another fact you got wrong, Ms. Perla.)
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Di Fara Pizza in Brooklyn, NY. 1424 Avenue J (at East 15th Street). Tel. 718-258-1367. Q train to Avenue J. Map Di Fara. Hours: Wed - Sat: lunch 12 - 4:00 pm, dinner 7 - 9 pm; Sun: lunch 1 - 4 pm, dinner 7 - 8 pm; closed Monday and Tuesday. Check Di Fara’s Facebook page for updates and last minute changes.
We were in the midst of the 17th snowfall in two weeks in New York and I found myself wondering how I might get down to Argentina for a weekend because it’s summer there. By weekend I don’t mean two or three days (too far + it's a place too full of wonders) but rather, that any visit to Argentina – especially if you know people there – must include a weekend. Because weekends are when asado goes down throughout Argentina, and probably in Uruguay too.
Asado is a daylong meat barbecue event.
Here are some givens on the topic of asado: everyone with a house has a parrilla (pronounced par-eesha; it’s a kind of grill); everyone with a parrilla hosts asado; and apartment-dwellers without a parrilla go to asados hosted by friends or family, or they host their own in other places.
I didn't get a photo of an asado along the highway, but somewhere around here I saw people unloading their van.
Rollover photo to see the parrilla at Correa, the shoe store.
On our way to asado at our friends’ friends’ house in Canning, a Buenos Aires suburb, we passed many families and groups of friends unloading trays of food (plus sports equipment and other toys) from their vehicles at roadside parrillas. At Correa, a shoe store from which I bought a pair of handmade shoes and was treated to a tour behind the scenes there was a well-used parrilla in the courtyard (I've posted other photos from Correa here).
Why are Argentines grilling en masse every weekend? And another question: why do they do grilling in a way that takes so much time? Why don't they use gas grills where all they have to do is turn a couple of dials and then throw on the food? Or if not that, why don't they take the charcoal route, squirt some lighting fluid, wait 15 minutes for embers, and then get on with it?
Because they've figured out a better way, though it is more time-consuming (they don't mind). Fuel-wise, they use any combination of charcoal, wood, pine cones, dead leaves, branches, and fronds that might be on hand. The grill-person moves a hand over different spots above the fire to feel the heat, and then adjusts the placement of foods to optimize each item's particular cooking needs. The parrilla (remember, pronounced par-eesha) has a height-adjustable grilling surface that allows for maneuverability and, when mastered, offers clear benefits food-wise: a steak, which cooks for over an hour, somehow comes out perfectly tender and pink in the middle.
Asado food is simple and excellent – cuts of beef, organ meats, maybe chicken, certainly chorizo (which gets paired with grilled provolone for a first course), and a number of sides and hors d’oeuvres made in the kitchen.
But the question remains: why do Argentines go to all this trouble so often? Just to eat? In fact, no.
Asado is much more than a food thing; it is a rite of existence, a culturally imperative celebration of family and friendship. Argentines, I found, place much more emphasis on the time they spend with each other than we do in the United States. We're too busy here. The best asado comparatives I can come up with from my life as an American are Independence Day and stadium tailgating. But those each occur only once or a handful of times a year, while in Argentina, Asado happens every weekend. And have no doubt: the purpose of asado is not to celebrate a game or a holiday. It exists as a living manifestation of people’s commitment to staying close with one another. It’s about friendship and friends spending time together. And it's neither sappy nor quaint.
Over and over again I saw how friends and family – and the importance of each relationship – trumps work and money for Argentines. It’s not a bad way to live. I saw how food and libation – though often amazing – nevertheless play second fiddle to the togetherness factor of food events. Sure, it’s difficult to separate the two when they occur at the same time but trust me, friendship and closeness with family are what energize Argentines to have these get-togethers.
Friendship Day "ribbons" on the signage at Rapa Nui. Scroll to see some of their incredible ice cream.
Our visit last summer coincided with Friendship Day – Dia Del Amigo. When our friends Walter and Alejandra first told us about it, I figured it was something specific to their circle of friends and family. Maybe they saw it on the calendar and figured why not make a nice occasion out of this cute concept. Wrong! Friendship Day is an actual holiday celebrated by everyone.
That shoe store/factory with the parrilla in the courtyard? Owner wore a friendship bracelet and at closing hour on Friendship Day, his friends stopped by with a bottle of sparkling wine to celebrate.
When we went out for pizza on the eve of Friendship Day (read about it here), one particularly long table of about 30 people – men who mainly appeared to be in their 50s – were having dinner together. Other smaller tables were occupied with similar groupings of same gender/same age people. I asked Walter about this. His reply: “Friendship Day.”
The large Friendship Day group at the pizzeria, El Cuartito. Scroll for El Obrero, where one Friendship Day group is seated at right.
On Friendship Day itself, we had lunch at El Obrero, a restaurant in an old section of Buenos Aires. Again, many tables with large groups of people together having lunch: Friendship Day. Rapa Nui, an ice cream shop (the best ice cream I've ever had; not kidding) located two blocks from our friends’ apartment, had banners facing the sidewalk that proclaimed, “20 de Julio Dia Del Amigo.” Friendship Day.
Continuous bells and dings of sends and receipts from devices, texting and ringing that together sound as frenetic as those I’ve witnessed at Campo de’ Fiori in Rome on a hoppin’ Saturday night filled my ears with sounds. What was happening? Friendship Day.
You get it. Friendship matters in Argentina. But what about the food? What about the food?
It's great!
I shot video and made some still photos over the course of our asado day. Rather than get into details here, such as how a parrilla has v-shaped slats for the grills and that channel drippings away from the fire and into a gutter (wow!), I’ve posted a short video for you to see for yourself. Click the photo at the top of this story to activate the video or, for a larger version, click here to see it on Vimeo.
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After we ate, Edu (our host), Walter, and I took a walk and came upon a house that had just wrapped construction and the owners hadn't yet moved in. The photo shows the deluxe parrilla and asado room; scroll for a stepped-back view.
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I owe much thanks to Ben Dougherty, who helped me to edit the video. And of course to Edu and Sonia, who were so welcoming to me and my family last summer, hosting us for asado and appearing in my photos and video. Also, I owe a big thank you to Walter and Alejandra for hosting us at their apartment for nearly two weeks – so totally brave of them!
SLIDESHOW: Pulperia Ña Serapia in Buenos Aires.
A pair of empanadas at Pulperia Ña Serapia.
El Mártir.
Walter goes over our (extensive) order with Hector.
The sculpture.
The food side of the menu. At black market rates, US $1 got us AR $8.5 (in 2014). Empanadaas listed top left.
Beverages.
A wine spritz.
Steaming tamale (foreground), humido (background), hot sauce (center).
A dessert cheese with some sort of preserve, perhaps quince.
There it sits amongst the wicker baskets and sugar bins, blank checks, cash register, free magnets, toothpick dispenser. It may, because of the seductive aromas within this place (or, because of your immediate imperative to get a table or place your order) elude your attention momentarily. But there's no doubt that this thing, a sculpture of a distinguished man wearing a sport jacket and tie with a crucifix pin attached to one of the lapels, will grab your attention when you see it: the man's dignified expression reflects strength and survival despite the presence of dripping blood and a knife wound to the heart. Why is it here?
Now, look there and notice the guy who's chatting with customers, serving food, and speaking with the cooks behind the counter. He's Hector Leonardo Yepez, the owner of this place – and the inspiration for the sculpture. You'll see the resemblance. The piece, it turns out, is an ancillary work based upon "The Martyr," a photograph by Marcos Lopez, an Argentine photographer whose bright and colorful pictures depict staged poses of people in front of mundane backgrounds. A copy of "The Martyr," and articles about it, hang on one of the walls in the restaurant. According to Lopez ( I've translated from this article), "The man is suffering the pain of five centuries of colonialism and social injustice."
Amazing.
Yepez's restaurant is called Pulperia Ña Serapia, and it is Pizzacentric's 2013 Restaurant of the Year. Pizzacentric celebrates love-inspired, people-accessible food places that are many times hidden in plain sight – spots that lack media coverage but suffer no lack of virtuous food. For 2012, the honor was bestowed upon Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino, a restaurant located in the breathtaking Dolomite Mountains in Italy. This year, the winner is in Buenos Aires, about which I should say right here and now: you need to go there.
A quick explanation as to why the winner is again not in the US. Because sure, it could be here – we all know of places that qualify. But: (1) The majority of stories on PC already take place in New York; (2) Affordability means different things in different places, and "affordable" in New York is not necessarily affordable; and (3) Most importantly, I would love to inspire you to travel.
Before we get to why this tiny hole-in-the-wall place across the street from a largish city park near a university for which I don't even know the name is the 2013 Pizzacentric "Restaurant of the Year," let's turn to the topic of empanadas. Because without a doubt, empanadas are the pizza of Argentina.
The empanadas at Pizzeria El Cuartito.
Yes, there's plenty of standard-style pizza in Argentina. I wrote about one place, El Cuartito, in this story. The pizza was good and the pizzeria itself was real-deal cool. But it's the empanada – a small package of thinly-rolled soft dough filled, sealed, and baked with beef and/or others fillings – that is theubiquitous and affordable regionally-variable food of Argentina. In fact, many pizzerias offer, aside from pizza, very good homemade empanadas – and by this I don't mean those thawed-out orangish Jamaican patties like the ones you find in New York pizza shops. Not only are good empanadas common in Buenos Aires (and I imagine throughout the country, in particular in the northern provinces), but they are indeed a part of Argentina's cultural fabric in much the same way that pizza or hamburgers are here in the US.
According to Walter and Alejandra, our Argentine friends who for years had lived in Brooklyn, a mediocre Argentine empanada is still better than the best ones they had tried here in the US. When they invited us over for empanadas – which, lucky for us, occurred many times – Alejandra made the dough from scratch, baked them in the oven (rather than frying), and used the kinds of good ingredients that I myself would buy for cooking at home.
"In Argentina," she said, "I wouldn't bother to make empanadas. Why would I make do that? I can get such good ones so nearby and they're so cheap."
"But here," her husband, Walter added, speaking of the United States: "Here, it could be a very good business."
Alas when Walter's job assignment brought him and his family back to Argentina, I knew there was only one thing to do: we had to go there and see out for ourselves whether the US does indeed fall short in the category of empanada quality. And of course, visit our friends.
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The night before we were supposed to leave early in the morning for a ferry that at 7am would take us across the widest river in the world from Argentina to Uruguay, Walter brought me on an empanada walk. When we returned to his apartment hours later our families were already in bed but Kristin got up to ask me what had taken us so long and how the empanadas were.
"We haven't eaten them yet. We're going to reheat them right now. Join us."
She shook her head, mentioned that it was crazy how late it was (it was nearly 11), and went back to bed.
SLIDESHOW: Empanadas of Buenos Aires
This one's Carne Picante. Can't you tell?! Each pink line segment represents an empanada ordered.
The Carne Picante interior.
17 was the perfect amount for 4 adults and 3 children
On day 2, Alé, Kristin, and I stopped in at this place…
… where the empanadas were cheesy and kickin'!
Our second stop on the empanada walk, where the Chard tasted healthy and the Beef included olives.
Empanadas are made in the back and then kept warm in this old oven.
A roll of paper for wrapping up to-go orders.
It's not a big restaurant, but there are tables on two levels.
Great sign!
Employees behind the counter at what turned out to be our first of two visits to Ña Serapia.
Our order as it emerged from the oven at Ña Serapia.
When we got home, Walter organized the menus and empanada diagrams so that we'd know which was which.
Beef empanadas from four different places.
During our visit, we ate empanadas from three excellent places that night and from several others at other times. All of the empanadas we had were from restaurants that, like good New York pizzerias, made the dough from scratch, had the owner present, and served excellent quality food possessing nuanced flavors. I must have eaten twenty or more empanadas while in Argentina and all of them were good.
Note: To an Argentine, only beef empanadas are worth evaluating. To judge a place based on its Chicken empanada would be like evaluating a pizzeria based on its slice topped with Buffalo chicken – you wouldn't do that.
However, I ate empanadas of all sorts.
On our first night we broke the ice by picking up a mixed batch of 17 from La Cocina, a tiny dark and charming spot not far from where our friends live. With a top-notch Malbec to sate our thirst (I'm convinced that Argentina's best wines stay in Argentina), this meal set the tone for what would be two weeks worth of great and affordable eating.
At Aguada, a cozy locals place, the straight-up Beef had just a hint of sweetness and, with chunky pieces of meat, was almost stew-like; the Chicken empanada was so pillowy it would win over any American in the "comfort food" category, its meaty filling bolstered with a warming dose of béchamel; and the Ham & Cheese, coated on top with a surprising glaze of sugar, was far from traditional but truly excellent.
The beef filling at El Sanjuanino, a small but inviting restaurant with tables on two levels, was made with olives, cumin, and onions; and the Verdure (chard) empanada must have included some béchamel in its prep but was packed with enough greens to feel super healthy.
At La Tucumanita, where there are no tables but only a counter with a couple of stools, Kristin, Alejandra, and I split a few non-meat specimens, each filled with cheesy oozy goodness. I wish we'd had more time at this place: I would have ordered seconds.
At La Morada, I sacrificed some stomach space in order to try Locro, a corn and meat stew that in the wintertime is a frequent co-star on the menu of nearly every empanaderia. I made sure to also try the Spicy Beef empanada. So glad that I did.
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Those places were all very, very good – really! But Pulperia Ña Serapia took the cake in so many different ways. As soon as I stepped in there – well before I'd even tried their food – I knew it was special. Between the impression made by the owner and his gracious host-rapport with the customers that involved equal amounts of serving food and chatting; the bloody sculpture and photo which could not not intrigue the most blasé of people; and the clinking of glasses and tapping of forks against plates, and the happy and comfortable murmur of people conversing throughout the small room; and the employees who prepared food and, during down moments wiped used water beer bottles clean (presumably for recycling) – well, I felt like I'd discovered restaurant heaven.
And then, the empanadas. On the important matter of Beef, Serapia was the clear winner in our blind taste test on the night of the empanada walk. The dough had a flaky pastry-like quality and the filling of the Salteñas – diced beef, potato, and perhaps a little onion – was absolutely sublime.
I said to Walter, who was also tasting the empanadas from this place for the first time, "We must bring our families to this place. I have to go there again."
So return we did. On our final night in Argentina we seven crowded into the family VW and drove over there. The place was packed and we had to wait outside for about 20 minutes before being invited to sit at the back table. It was quite a squeeze but we didn't mind. Our meal included many incredible empanadas that everyone agreed were muy outstanding; a humida, which is a shaved corn, squash, and cheese tamale-like jammy; a beef and cornmeal tamale; an accompanying spicy homemade sauce that I loved so much I even (unsuccessfully) proposed to Kristin that we take some back to the US (we theorized that it was made from eggplant, tomato, onion, oil, chile flakes, and paprika); and for the adults to wash everything down, a pitcher of mediocre red wine that you blend 50/50 with seltzer to make it refreshing and palatable.
I do lament the fact that I don't speak Spanish. In several cases, but in particular at Serapia, I craved dialogue and information. It was difficult to be in a Ña Serapia, where there's so much good energy, and not converse with Hector – especially considering that his persona seemed so defined by his accessibility and friendliness. Walter and Alejandra spoke with him a bit and confirmed to me that he's a cool guy.
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Next time I visit Argentina, I will again eat at this place. But I will also head north to the Salta, Jujuy, and Tucumán provinces – places from which many Argentine empanada styles originate.
One further note on travelling to Argentina: getting there is most of the battle. Round trip fares from New York fluctuate in the $900-$1400 range, but once there you can take advantage of an exchange rate that strongly favors the US Dollar and you'll find that it's not such an expensive trip after all. An upcoming post will delve into the Argentine currency and the confusing situation of multiple exchange rates.
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Note #1: Empanadas in Buenos Aires are inexpensive. In general, they cost between $US 1.00 and $US 2.50 per empanada, with most of the ones we encountered in the lower part of that range. The number of empanadas that constitute a meal depends on their size and your appetite. It seems like 2-4 is the range for an average eater. Prices in USD are based on the "black market" exchange rate that we got during the summer of 2012, AR $8.5 per US $1.
Spoiler alert for Note #2: If you're a vegetarian and you want to eat empanadas read no further.
Note #2: I don't know for certain but according to Walter, empanada dough is "most certainly made with lard." I advise, if you've read this far and the presence of lard concerns you, that you make an exception and eat Argentine empanadas anyway.
Note #3: Argentines pronounce the Spanish "y" sound (written with either "ll" or "y") with a "sh" sound. So if an Argentine asks you your name in Spanish, "Cómo se llama?," they'll pronounce it, "Cómo se shamah?" Likewise, I live in "New Shork," not "New York." Etc.
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The Winner:
Pulperia Ña Serapia. Av. Las Heras 3357, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tel. 4801-5307. Map Pulperia Ña Serapia. Call for hours.
The others (all good):
La Cocina. Av. Pueyrredón 1508, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tel. 4825-3171. Map La Cocina. Hours: Monday-Saturday, 11am-4pm and 6pm-Midnight (closed Sundays). Second downtown location is at Florida 142 in the Galleria Boston.
Aguada. Billinghurst 1862, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tel. 4827-9477/1802. Map Aguada. Hours: Daily 11am-3pm and 7pm-11:30pm. Website: http://www.laaguadacocina.com.ar/.
El Sanjuanino. Avenida Callao (Posadas) 1515, Buenos Aires Argentina. Tel. 4804-2909. Map El Sanjuanino. Hours: Daily Noon-4pm and 7pm-1am. Second location is at Sánchez de Bustamante 1788, in the Palermo section of B.A. Website: http://www.elsanjuanino.co/.
La Tucumanita. Arenales 2882, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tel. 4821-4617 or 4826-2136. Map La Tucumanita. Website: http://www.latucumanita.com.ar/. Two other locations, consult website for details. Call for hours.
La Morada. Larrea 1336, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Tel. 4821-6349. Map La Morada, Recoleta location. Website: http://www.lamorada.com.ar. Second location is at Hipolito Yrigoyen 778. Call for hours.
It all started two years ago when after we’d already had dinner we went to a Christmas party hosted by the parents of one of my wife’s students. It was in a lovely house with multiple staircases, tall ceilings, a great kitchen, and possibly secret rooms. When I saw the enormous spread on the dining room table I knew right away I was destined to eat a second dinner. What I didn’t know, but would know as soon as I got to tasting stuff, was that one particular item amongst the many would change my life.
There it was, next to a Ruth Reichl-worthy baked ham the size of a husband pillow: a jar of “CRACOVIA Super Extra Hot Mustard,” provided, I’m sure, as an accompaniment to the ham but meant only for people who like spicy food because when Cracovia says “Extra Hot,” Cracovia means Extra Hot.
I’ve never cooked a ham and, though I eat it on occasion, it’s usually in the form of thin sliced deli meat. A good baked ham is an entirely different animal that I do not encounter often enough. So when I saw it on this table with a long serrated knife casually placed along an arc of its enormous round serving plate, and when I saw the serration marks on the ham and realized this was an opportunity to have a slice of ham with any thickness I desired – I made myself a slice, dabbed some mustard onto it, and, well, that’s when the second dinner really got going.
My wife’s co-teacher and her husband were there. I don’t know the husband very well nor does he know me that well – we’d only met once or twice before (nice guy). But I'm pretty sure that by the time we parted ways that night, he had to have established one certain opinion about me, based on my behavior: that I can drone on for too long about a rather boring topic, such as a mustard. I’m not sure how many ways I tried to get him to try it or if he did try it because I don’t remember what I said. I was in the throes of a true mustard high.
When we left, according to my wife, Kristin, most of the car ride home involved me asking: “Can you find out from her where she got that mustard from? I have to get that mustard. Maybe it’s at Eagle Provisions. Do you think it’s at Eagle Provisions? Can you ask her?”
“I’ll try, I’ll try,” Kristin said.
"Okay, thanks. 'Cause I really want that mustard.”
I asked her about it for at least the rest of the week. Here’s what I probably said: “Did you ask her about the mustard?”
I’m sure I was driving her crazy.
But Kristin did me such a solid and actually asked her student’s mom about the mustard. Lo and behold, a few weeks later she came home not with the information, which would have been the best thing, but with a jar of the product. The mother/party host had gone out and gotten for me my very own jar of Cracovia mustard. Unfortunately, she didn’t tell Kristin where it was from – and there was no way I was going to talk Kristin into asking her about it again.
After I consumed the one jar, which based on my present day rate of consumption (yes, I have it now!), must have been about two weeks, I tried to find it on my own. I called many Polish stores. None had it. I even drove over to the aforementioned Eagle Provisions, who on the phone had said they didn’t carry it but I didn’t want to believe them because it's such a big store and I had to see for myself.
Unbeknownst to my wife, that empty jar lived in our refrigerator for over a year. The information of the mustard was too precious to trust to a piece of paper or a file within the computer.
**
One day a few weeks ago it occurred to me that I should ask our Polish housekeeper. She’s super-nice and has asked me in the past for tips on shopping for food. That’s an open door, right? She told me that she knows a place where they might actually have it and that she would look.
The next time she came she brought me a mustard that was not the right mustard – what a sweetheart. It was a good mustard and I thanked her and paid her for it. One should never allow one's madness for a mustard (or any other thing) get in the way of proper manners.
The next time I saw her, which was two weeks later, she said, “I have something for you,” and took from a brown paper bag a single jar of the mustard. Here’s what it says:
CRACOVIA Super Extra Hot Mustard
Musztarda “Piekielna” - Nawet Drwala Powala!
The translation from Bing Babelfish is a little off, but it gives the idea: Mustard "Hell"-Even Lumberjack Knocks!
She offered to pick up more for me if I ever wanted more. The store that carries it is next door to where she lives.
**
Upon careful inspection of the label, I realize that, ingredients-wise, this mustard is not something that I would normally gravitate toward. Considering that many good mustards contain only a few ingredients and nothing artificial, some of the items listed on the Cracovia label raise flags for me, including: modified corn starch, frozen yolk, flavour, potassium sorbate, sodium benzoate, locust bean gum, colour, calcium disodium EDTA. Black strap molasses, yes, and that’s pretty cool – but I don’t think that this mustard would ever make it onto the shelves of the Park Slope Food Coop.
There’s a lesson to be learned here. Sometimes, one must excuse oneself from self-imposed rules of food conduct and eat certain foods because they’re fantastic. That’s how I am able to sleep at night. This mustard achieves high level hotness both in one's mouth and in one's nose. Why should I live without it?
**
Still wary of crossing any boundary with our really nice housekeeper I decided it wouldn’t be wrong to ask her for some more mustard since the store is right where she lives. I thought it would make a good Christmas present for certain friends and I figured I could use another half-dozen jars. She said yes.
She texted me while we were eating dinner, in fact just as I was dipping fry after fry into the mustard. She had mixed news. She went back and got me more jars of mustard but only four, because that’s all the store had.
So, you certain friends who I imagine are reading this. Understand that I may wish to give you a jar of mustard but that maybe I can’t because I don’t have enough. If you do receive one from me as a gift you should know that you’re superspecialimporant because out of the four I’m going to get, I’m keeping one for myself since my own jar is more than halfway finished.
I realize that with my anticipated large scale consumption of this mustard I cannot ask my housekeeper to forever be my source. I need to break free and pick up my own Cracovia Super Extra Hot Mustard. And even though sharing the location of the store may put you and I at odds with each other, both of us coveting what might be a limited supply of this spicy yellow gold, I’ve decided to share the location with you here.
Gala Apple, at 4112 18th Avenue, in Brooklyn, NY.
**
So again, if you like mustard and you like spicy mustard, then this mustard, I swear, beats the pants off – as a dipping sauce for fries or ham or turkey – any other mustard I’ve ever had. In fact, as a dipping condiment this mustard has overtaken Pio Pio’s legendary green sauce and become my now absolute favorite condiment anywhere.
Make sure, if you’re going to get some, that you call first to check that they have it in stock. You never know with me around!
SLIDESHOW: Pizza at El Cuartito in Buenos Aires.
One of several alluring pizzerias along Avenida Corrientes.
I’m a sucker for neon signs and Buenos Aires has plenty of them.
El Cuartito’s crowded entryway.
Pizza action.
The employees were super-friendly.
This large party is out to celebrate Friendship Day, an important holiday in Argentina.
Oozy cheese: very comforting
Excellent anchovy pizza.
A serious matter: Walter wrote down the order to make sure nothing was forgotten.
Side view of El Cuartito’s soft and crunchy crust.
Fainá in action.
Spinach, bechamel, and cheese: a great pizza.
On our way to El Cuartito along the Avenida Corrientes, we passed a number of neon-lighted, vintage pizza spots that beckoned as I knew they would, prompting me to conclude that in Buenos Aires—as in New York—pizza matters a lot. I was hungry and psyched to reach our destination and so couldn’t stop myself from asking our hosts Walter and Alejandra, “Why aren’t we going to this one?” and “Why aren’t we going to that one?”
Of course, there was no answer—nor should there have been. It would turn out (and I knew this from the moment we arrived there) that El Cuartito was the perfect choice for my virgin Buenos Aires pizza experience.
The size of the crowd waiting outside and inside, the packed tables in two big dining rooms and the sea of pictures on the walls, the words, “Desde 1934,” painted above the pizza counter, the way everyone in the place applauded loudly at the sound of a shattering glass or plate: all of this stuff—and the pizza itself—led to my immediate realization that El Cuartito is a totally legit pizzeria. Imagine Katz’s Deli in New York if you can, but change English to Spanish, turn pastrami into pizza, and make most everyone Argentine—and voilà: El Cuartito. Thank you, Alejandra and Walter!
I should confess that of the many foods I had hoped to try during my family’s two week visit to Argentina last summer—and despite my knowledge that the massive Italian emigration that occurred in the decades around the turn of the 20th century included not only the United States, but also Argentina (and Brazil)—pizza was notat the top of my list.
Consider this a testament to the diverse array of other culinary highlights that were already on it. As such, my plans emphasized getting to the bottom of empanadas, experiencing a daylong backyard asado (barbecue), seeing whether the sandwiches de miga would be as good as they are at Dulce de Leche Bakery (a top-notch Argentine place in NJ that I have photographed for), learning about what Argentines eat at home, and becoming acquainted with Argentine dulce de leche (a milk caramel) in every possible way.
I did know, however, that a visit to Buenos Aires would be incomplete without a pizza experience. I had asked Walter and Alejandra if there were “Totonno’s-type places with coal burning ovens and fresh mozzarella.” They didn’t think so. I searched the internet but most of the info was in Spanish and my curiosity wasn’t intense enough to inspire deep digging. So I did what any person lucky enough to have friends to visit in a faraway place would do: I trusted my friends.
At far left, under the glass, are stacks of fainá, a chickpea flatbread that Argentines eat on top of their pizza.
I have read about the evolution of pizza in and around Naples, and how it crossed the Atlantic to the US where it was first eaten solely by the Italians but then was popularized and Americanized for mass appeal. I did not learn, while in Argentina, whether pizza had traveled a similar path to that country. But based upon the pizza that I had had there, I was curious.
I did a little research, looking at the points of departure for Italians who went to the United States versus those who went to Argentina. The results are from three sources — so the years don’t line up perfectly. But it seems that while most Italians who went to the US came from southern Italy (Port of Naples; later dates), a greater portion of those who chose Argentina came from the north (Port of Genoa; earlier dates).
Italy, though unified politically as one country, even today retains culinary diversity from region to region and town to town. It comes as no surprise that emigrants from Genoa might have brought to Argentina different culinary practices than those brought from Naples to the United States.
Consider fainá, a flatbread of chickpea flour that Argentines order by the slice and lay atop their pizza. Fainá, it turns out, is the Argentine version of Italian farinata, aka cecina, (or, in France, socca). All are versions of the same food that is eaten—topped with salt, pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil—as a snack along the Riviera coast in Italy and France. In Genoese dialect, it is actually called fainá.
(For “fainá” in New York, try the “socca pizza” at Pizza by Certé. Its gluten-free chickpea-based crust gets folded over like a crepe so that when you cut into it fresh mozzarella and sweet tomato sauce ooze out.)
Fugazetta with ham.
Two other Argentine pizzas that point to Genoa are fugazza and fugazetta, which happen to be the most frequently ordered combinations at El Cuartito (and, I imagine, throughout Argentina). Fugazza is a sauceless pizza topped with a mound of sautéed sweet onions; fugazetta is the same, but with a layer cheese under the onions.
The writer Daniel Neilson wrote on the blog, therealargentina.com, that fugazetta is “the classic Buenos Aires pizza” and that the Argentine government has even listed it as a food of “patrimonial value.” I don’t know what this means, but it sure makes fugazetta sound important. (I can attest. I saw many a waiter with fugazza and fugazetta pies flying past me at El Cuartito.)
“In 1893,” writes Neilson, “Don Augustin Banchero disembarked in Buenos Aires from Genoa and opened one of the country’s first pizzerias. The family [claims] to have invented the fugazza con queso...”
It’s clear to me that Banchero named fugazza after focaccia, a pizza-like flatbread with toppings that in Italy can vary by region. Did Banchero think he was making focaccia and not pizza? I doubt it. But perhaps, having come from Genoa, he based his fugazza pizza on an onion topped cheeseless focaccia of which he was fond. We won’t know.
(One of the dreamy vintage pizza spots we had passed on the way to El Cuartito was El Banchero.)
The plain "Mozzarella" pizza was my least favorite but it scored high on the comfort-food scale + it's perfect for kids.
I would be completely remiss if I didn’t devote a few sentences to the most significant feature of Argentine pizza: the cheese. Scroll through the slideshow via the top photo for views of El Cuartito and its pizza, and you’ll see that cheese forms a blanket on nearly every pie.
It may seem like cheese-overkill to those of us accustomed to a thinner layer or even a sparse dotting of cheese on pizza. And at 46 years old I know that I should not eat that much cheese too often. But there is a difference between mucho cheese in Argentina versus the US—and while it’s true that I ought to cuidado, the Argentine version is worth experiencing.
Piles of cheese in the US create a stretchy thick rubbery eating challenge, whereas in Argentina, it’s more of an ooze. That’s because the cheese on a “Mozzarella” pizza is only 75% mozzarella. The other 25% is cuartirolo, a soft melting cheese with roots in Northern Italy (Lombardy).
The net result is what I would call “comfort pizza.” Its warm and enveloping coat of stretchy cheese has a buttery top and crispy edges. My favorite turned out to be the spinach with bechamel and cheese. Really, as rich as pizza can get, I imagine. But I figured—and you should too—that if you’ve made it all the way to Argentina, which is near the bottom of the Earth, you ought to do it right. Pizza the Argentine way will have cheese. I suggest you embrace it.
Notes:
1. People told me and I’ve seen written that most Italians came from southern Italy. I don’t know if it’s true — the numbers I discovered point to not true, but perhaps the Argentine population whose ancestors came from Southern Italy grew at a faster rate. What is certain is that there are definite food influences from the North that I don’t believe infiltrated the US with the same saturation.
2. There were four styles of pizza I had at El Cuartito. I’ve put them in the order of favorite to least favorite: 1.Spinach/bechamel/cheese; 2. Anchovies/sauce (no cheese); 3. Fugazetta; 4. Mozarella. I didn’t have Fugazza (onions without cheese) at El Cuartito, but I did have it at another pizzeria in Buenos Aires while I was there. And I must say, I prefer Fugazetta (with cheese).
--
El Cuartito's menu, summer 2013. $ sign is symbol for Argentine Pesos. Exchange rate, when we were there, was about AR $5.5 per US $1 - but "black market" exchange rate was about AR $8.5 per US $1. At the "black market" rate, for instance, a large spinach and bechamel pizza was about US $13 (110÷8.5) [2017 Update: currency exchange rate is currently ~AR $16 per US $1.]
El Cuartito. Talcahuano 937, Buenos Aires, Argentina (El Centro). Tel. 4816-1758/4331. Map El Cuartito. Hours: Sunday - Friday 12 pm - 1 am; Saturday 12 pm - 2 am. El Cuartito's website.
Slice Out Hunger, Scott Wiener’s pizza-charity extravaganza, rocked the Village again last week when more than six hundred people waited in a line that went nearly three-quarters the way around a city block for $1 pizza slices from 43 of New York's best-known shops. In total, those pizzerias donated 800 pies and over $20,000 was raised for Food Bank For NYC, a non-profit that provides 400,000 free meals a day for New Yorkers in need. The money from Slice Out Hunger's equates to 100,000 meals.
SLIDESHOW: Slice Out Hunger 2013 - Pizza Eaters, Pizza Makers.
Checking out the offerings from Forcella Pizza (1 loc in Brooklyn, 2 in Manhattan).
When it comes time to making choices, even at $1 it's serious business.
I haven't been to Table 87, but it's right near me and that pizza looks good. Officially on the To Eat List!
That's Scott (at left), the organizer of the event.
I remember this guy from last year. You can tell he knows what he's doing.
Lucali's pizza at right, Di Fara's at left. Are they similar?
Mark Iacono of Lucali serving his pizza.
I hope he didn't say, "Say cheese."
That's PJ from Pizza by Certe. Amazing little place in Midtown.
Pizza people. Psyched!
Hmmmmmm.
Some found space to eat inside....
… others outside.
Scott gets lots of volunteers to help out.
One of Arturo's owners. Such an underrated place. Coal oven pizza, free live jazz - huh?
One place - Neapolitan Express - brought its own oven. Not fair!
Last year I documented the event by making a video (which is posted to Pizzacentric here). It documents the excitement that ensues at the event, which Wiener calls "New York City's Biggest Pizza Party": loud DJ'd music, enthusiasm for pizza by everyone there, Wiener himself (who last year made some announcements over the loudspeaker system but this year didn’t), and of course - boatloads of pizza.
This time around I decided to take still photos. You can see a slideshow of my faves by rolling over the above photo.
Who in the world knows how big the event will become for next year. But damn straight I’ll be there. I’m sure the line will be long. And that time, I just may pack up one of those boxes they provide with enough slices to bring home and reheat in the toaster oven for lunch the next couple days afterwards. That’s what I saw a bunch of Village locals doing. Pretty smart - especially considering that by the time most attendees get to the actual pizza, it has cooled to room temperature.
**
Slice Out Hunger takes place every October at St. Anthony's Church, at the corner of Sullivan and Houston Streets. Here's the Slice Out Hunger Website.
Many apologies! It’s been months since I’ve posted regularly to Pizzacentric. I’ve tried to prove I still have a pulse by sharing photos on the PC Facebook page, but - due to my involvement in a book project, and to the amount of time I spent out of town last summer, including a two week trip to Buenos Aires (about which there will be several posts) - I have had little time for Pizzacentric. I hope that’s about to change. You’d be right to remind me that I could at least have posted little snippets now and then. But I prefer longer pieces. I strive to get to the heart of a food or food movement and connect the dots between it and other stuff. In order to write those kinds of stories, I need my brain’s full attention.
So, that said, how about this for a snippet of the day....
For years, my dad asked me to take him to the original Patsy’s in Harlem. He’s pretty sure that his parents ate there pre-1943, the year he was born, and he has long wanted to see the place. I, of course, have wanted him to see it too - and for him to try their pizza - but we hadn’t yet found the time to go there together.
I love the pizza at Patsy’s in Harlem (the Patsy’s in Harlem is under separate ownership from the other Patsy’s Pizzeria, a New York mini-chain with the same logo and the same claims of pedigree, but not the same pizza - I know, confusing) and have always thought that my mom and dad would like it because in certain ways it reminds me of the Pines of Rome, the place that serves our favorite pizza in the DC area.
[Patsy’s and the Pines of Rome’s pizza styles are not at all alike, but both restaurants are sit-down Italian spots that do serve pizza, in addition to pastas and entrees - a format that is not as common in New York as one might assume. I received an explanation about this once from the owner of Mario’s in the Bronx, an old restaurant that makes pizza but purposefully leaves it off the (printed) dinner menu. “Many places took pizza off the menu,” the guy told me. The logic is simple, he explained: if you are a restaurant owner, would you rather sell a $14 pizza that feeds two or three people, or a $15 entree that feeds one?]
Anyway, for the book I’ve been working on, I needed to go to the famous Sylvia’s Restaurant in Harlem to check out their Gospel Brunch. So I invited my parents, who were here for the weekend. When we arrived at Sylvia’s at about 11:30 we were told that the music doesn’t start until 12:30.
So we headed to Patsy’s for a pizza-style breakfast. By this, I do not mean we were gonna have pizza topped with eggs or any other bullshit breakfast stuff - just that we would be eating pizza before noon - and that I hadn't had breakfast yet.
On the way crosstown we encountered a large posse of red light-runnin' wheelie-poppin' muffler-averse motorcyclists who - I’ve since learned - were looking for trouble (see this). We didn’t know what they were about to do (or had just done), of course, so I barely paused in my explanation to my parents of the fascinating story of Patsy’s, Grimaldi’s, and Juliana’s.
**
This large painting of Frank Sinatra in jeans graces one of the walls at Patsy's.
We got to Patsy’s by 11:40. I brought my parents into the restaurant side of the place first. They admired the old tile floors and the pictures on the wall. My dad looked over the menu.
“Why don’t we eat in here?” he asked.
I love the restaurant and I love sitting in there. The Italian food is good and the pizza is, as I’ve said, great. But, unless I'm there for dinner, I prefer to go next door to Patsy’s ‘pizzeria’ room.
It’s a tiny space that looks out on First Avenue through a large open window. The vibe is always a little Twilight Zone-ish there, maybe because I'm not familiar to the guys working in there. On this particular morning, they were more interested in watching soccer on the TV than in making our pizza.
But I wasn’t about to allow that to deter the mission: to share with my parents one of New York’s very best slices - a slice that, a bit counterintuitively, I prefer to order in a set of eight. At $11 for a whole pie, that’s what you should do, too, when you go there. Which you will. And even though the guy was concentrating only on the soccer game, we had a fresh pizza pie in under three minutes.
Before getting to the sensual reasons why I see Patsy’s pizza as one of New York’s best, I would like to address why - besides that it’s an old place with a storied history that involves Frank Sinatra, an original Italian community, a cooking wife who walked her dogs through the restaurant, and plenty of other amazing stuff - I think the place is important.
You see, of course I’ve wondered about the history of the pizza slice. And I’m pretty sure it’s an American invention. The style of pizza served in Italy has long been the individual-sized round type. You can get one in a restaurant in Italy for an affordable price (somewhere around 5 or 6 Euros, or about US $6.50-$7.80), but here in the US, this style goes for $13 and up.
At $13 per person, I think pizza departs from its original raison d’etre. Not to say I don’t like the fancier stuff. It can be delicious, and at certain places well worth the price. But it’s not what American pizza is all about. (Of course, neither is cheap shit made with preservatives or pharmaceutical cheese, either. Another day...)
**
Photo Courtesy Patsy’s Pizzeria
Gerry Lombardi told me that as soon as his grandfather Gennaro - who founded what may have been America’s first pizzeria - changed the format of his shop from store to restaurant, he started serving larger sized sharable pizzas right away.
“You were supposed to be able to feed four people with a pizza,” Lombardi told me. “It was a food for poor people.
But no slices. Not at Lombardi’s, and also not at Totonno’s or John’s - New York’s other known old places. But Patsy Lancieri: he had slices!
When Patsy opened up his place, the area - which later became known as “Spanish Harlem” but then was known as “Italian Harlem” - had New York’s largest population of Italians immigrants. And right from the start, according to Patsy’s co-owner John Brecevich, “Whenever there was an event or a nice day and a big crowd in [nearby] Jefferson Park, [Patsy] had a specially-built wagon where he would fill it up with pizzas and send a waiter out there and then sell by the slice.”
The above photo shows that wagon. And while it shows no pizza, the story is pretty believable.
So what does it mean that Patsy’s was likely the first place to offer pizza by the slice? Really, nothing, unless you’re a pizza sentimentalist.
But here’s the thing: when you taste this slice, you can taste the history of the slice - not just of this slice, but of the slice, in general.
This slice is pure slice. The crust is foldable and offers a subtle thin crunch that gives it bottom-side texture but will not exhaust your musculi masticatorii. When folded, the cheese and the sauce remain on the inside and do not ooze out, but do fill the space such that when you take a bite, it’s like having a cheese and tomato ravioli but with pizza dough instead of pasta dough. It’s a sensation so perfect it’s no wonder people folded. I imagine folding began out of necessity (for how else can you eat a slice of pizza without a table), but continued out of enjoyment.
**
After you order your whole pizza in Patsy’s “pizzeria” room, be sure to watch the process. From the time the guy “opens up” your dough and stretches it onto the peel, administers its ample cover of sauce and overdone quantity of cheese, puts it in the oven, and takes it out of the oven - I’d be surprised if 2 minutes time has passed. You can even ask the guy to open up the oven for a few seconds. If he’s feeling friendly, he’ll do it. And if he does, in just a few seconds time you’ll see your pie’s dough rise and its cheese bubble, like time lapse photography but in real time.
Then, of course, stand at that counter and eat it. One pie is perfect for two regular eaters. (If left to my own devises I can eat 7 out of the 8 slices but that’s not at all necessary.)
This, my friends, is the invention of the slice, still living and ready for your love, at Patsy’s in Harlem.
**
Perhaps against my better instinct I've posted a video of me eating Patsy's pizza standing outside at my car. It might be pretty boring - unless watching a video of someone eating pizza and talking about it as they eat is your thing.
**
PATSY'S PIZZERIA ESSENTIALS
Who: Founded in 1933 by Pasquale Lancieri, run for decades by him and his wife Carmella, eventually sold to two guys who are named Frank and John.
What’s there: The prototype for American pizza. Order a pie but eat the slices handheld and folded. Where: 2287 First Avenue, near East 118th Street. Not as far as it sounds.
Why go: Amazing pizza. Old school restaurant serving the pizza. No frills stand-up option for pizza only. Overall classic.
How: A behomoth coal-burning oven burning at 900-1000 degrees F, dough streched thin, superb tomatoes, not too much cheese.
Quote: “Patsy originated the concept of selling pizza by the slice. Because going back to the early 30s money was always an issue. He felt, instead of waiting for somebody to come in and buy a whole pizza, he’d rather sell part of it and make as much as he could that way." - John Brecevich
411: 2287 First Avenue, near East 118th Street, in East Harlem. Tel. 212-534-9783. Subway: 6 to 125th Street. Map Patsy's Pizzeria. Hours: Mon - Thursday: 11 am - 11 pm; Fri - Sat: 11 am - 9 pm; closed Sunday. Patsy's Pizzeria website.
When it was time to head back to New York from Cape Cod last Friday, the hour of our departure presented an opportunity for two fine road meals. First we stopped at Barlow’s Clam Shack ("We have been cooking on Cape Cod since 1668 when Grammaw Jane Besse-Barlow was convicted of cooking and selling her fine liquor to the Native Americans here"), where our friend R. and I picked up a couple of lobster rolls ($13.99 each, served with fries).
The anatomy of a proper lobster roll (and lobster roll culture overall) merit a full post someday, but for the purpose of this one — which mainly is to describe a great-but-expiring currently on offer one at Frank Pepe, a pizzeria founded in New Haven, CT in 1925 — I’ll just say that Barlow’s lobster roll was proper enough: a grilled-on-the-outside hot dog bun, I'm pretty sure no mayonnaise, and overstuffed with chunks of unadorned lobster meat (plus one unnecessary leaf of lettuce). Purity at its best — though I wish I'd thought to ask for some lemon!
The second meal of the drive began as a quest for pizza at Frank Pepe in New Haven — a place that happens to serve some of America’s best pizza. While driving along Route 95, I asked my wife Kristin to tell me about the Pepe menu:
“Do they have different sizes?”
“Yes. Small, medium, and large.”
“So I can have a small clam?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s get a small clam and a medium plain. Good?”
“Well it says that from July 1 to Labor Day only, they have one made with 'Fresh Native Tomatoes.'"
“Ok. So let’s get a small of that, and a small clam, and a medium plain.”
“1/2 pepperoni on the plain for Julia,” she added.
“Great,” I said.
It may read like a perfectly polite and unloaded conversation about ordering pizza, but in fact much more was going on. Neither Kristin nor our daughter eats clam, and our friend said she would eat whatever. Also, when Kristin mentioned this fresh tomato pie, it was my cue to say, “Great let’s get a medium fresh tomato one and a small with pepperoni for Julia.”
But I wanted more. I wanted a regular pie (it had been several years since I’d had it) — and of course I wanted a clam pizza because I like clams. A lot.
Pepe's had a huge line when we arrived. So we called in an order to go. Or tried to. The lady on the phone told Kristin it would be a 90 minute wait. “It’s crazy,” she told her, “It’s ridiculous. It’s never like this.”
[Note: If ever one should seek proof that people are insane for good pizza we should look to this Friday experience at Pepe's. An hour and a half wait for a pizza to go? Wow!]
I pray every day that all the old places I love —including Frank Pepe, Totonno’s, John’s, Patsy’s in Harlem, Arturo’s, Di Fara, and Luigi’s — that they stay around. This line at Pepe's reassured me that the good ones can survive.
We immediately called one of Frank Pepe’s satellite locations — one just down the highway in Fairfield, CT. Pizza at original locations is always better than at replicas (it’s just how it is with pizza), but we had no choice.
That said, this Pepe's replica in Fairfield does do Pepe's right. The restaurant is built into a Connecticut-looking house alongside the highway and close to the on- and off-ramps. And: standing in a parking lot huddled around the sloping trunk of our hatchback consuming way more pizza than we should in a town we'd never been to? Not too shabby!
Oh, so my wife. She was 100% right. Anyone who knows me or has read my stories knows that I like to judge a pizza first and foremost by the quality of its straight-up plain. But Pepe's "Native Tomato" ranks as one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had.
Like the crusts of the other two pies we had, this one's was charred black in spots, crispy, and with good salt: classic Pepe. It had no sauce but was plenty saucy from the garlic- and basil-spiked chunks of soft ripe tomato.
Paul Westerberg sang, "Feeling Freshy? Call Lovelines." I say: "Call Frank Pepe!" With only two weeks left on these pies, I urge you to head there pronto.
--
I called Pepe's to ask how they make those tomatoes and got Gary Bimonte of the Pepe family on the phone.What luck. Maybe he would share with me a clue of some sort.
I got no solid answers (pizzeria owners are often secretive), but here's what I did learn (or surmise): Pepe's marinates roughly diced fresh tomatoes in olive oil, basil, garlic, and spices.The only cooking involved occurs when the pizza is baked in the oven.
Fresh tomato pizza usually means slices of tomato baked on top of mozzarella and tomato sauce. One exception is Pizza by Certé, a place on West 55th Street in New York —they use fresh tomatoes year round to make sauce. But they skin and deseed their tomatoes, run them through a meat grinder, and then cook them with caramelized onions. (Story and recipe here.)
So how does Pepe's accomplish saucy without cooking or pureeing? I can only theorize. Is it thanks to the time they get to marinate? Is it because they're juicy to begin with? Perhaps because the cooks are sure to retain and use all of the juice that squirts out? I suspect all of the above.
I also did not learn what types of tomatoes they use. ("They're fresh tomatoes chosen according to Pepe's specifications.")
Are they from the area? ("We only use tomatoes from certain areas because we want to deliver the best quality product.")
Really, you can't tell me? I wanna make it at home! ("Competition is so fierce and we're expanding. I have to be very careful about what I divulge.")
I may have gotten nowhere on my quest for details, but that won't prevent me from attempting to make one at home. Anyway, I did learn a few good nuggets about Pepe's history during the call.
"My grandfather started out with a plain tomato, or tomato pie, or tomato apizza, you might call it. Back then all you had was plain tomato, or tomato & anchovy. No mozzarella."
"He added mozzarella probably in the late '20s or early '30s. But back then mozzarella was called a 'cream cheese.' In fact, when I first started there in the early 1970s, our abbreviation for mozzarella was 'CC.'"
"Clam pizza got introduced in the late '40s or early '50s. There was a person cutting clams and selling them on the half shell in the alleyway between the buildings. The guy said to my grandfather, 'Pop, why don't you put some of them on the pizza?'"
**
I also asked about Frank Pepe's southward expansion. There are currently seven locations, all in Connecticut except for one in Yonkers — just north of New York City. Does Pepe's southern march mean they have sights on New York City. (No comment.)
[Final Note: Thanks to my friend Nick A. for the original heads-up on this tomato pizza. He and I have schemed for over a year on how to eke out a visit to New Haven or at least to Yonkers, which isn't so far from where we live. And yet we haven't. Since he's going away on Wednesday until after Labor Day, it'll have to be next summer.]
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Frank Pepe in New Haven. 157 Wooster Street. Tel. 203-865-5762. Map Frank Pepe New Haven. Hours: Sunday - Thursday 11 am - 10 pm, Friday - Saturday 11 am - 11 pm.
Frank Pepe in Fairfield. 238 Commerce Drive. Tel. 203-333-7373. Map Frank Pepe Fairfield. Hours: Sunday - Thursday 11:30 am - 10 pm, Friday - Saturday 11:30 am - 11 pm.
Frank Pepe in Yonkers. 1955 Central Park Avenue. 914-961-8284. Map Frank Pepe Yonkers. Open daily 11:30 am - 10 pm.
Consult Frank Pepe website for additional locations.
Barlow's Clam Shack in Buzzards Bay, MA. 656 Scenic Highway. Tel. 508-272-8749. Map Barlow's. Call for hours.
Here I am on the last morning of my family’s annual visit to my brother- and sister-in-law and their two sons, all of whom live in farm country about thirty minutes away from Milwaukee. Between the pool (which occupies most of my daughter’s time when we’re there) and my wife’s brother’s hockey and fitness business that he runs out of a red barn, it seems we rarely leave their place and we eat most meals in. In fact, over the many years we’ve been visiting them, I can count on ten fingers the number of times we’ve eaten out. Don’t get me wrong: I like eating in. But I also like to check out indigenous ― hopefully old school ― food scenes in unfamiliar locales.
It’s an uphill climb because I’m one person out of nine people. And while sometimes I succeed in forcing everyone to spring the coop to go somewhere in Milwaukee, I don't want to do that too much. One time several years ago, I had made an appointment to show my photos to someone at an ad agency. The appointment concluded at lunchtime and so, with just a little research, I figured out that we should go to Solly’s Grille ― a 1930s vintage countertop lunch place known for its “butter burgers.”
Solly's Grille, 2007
A butter burger is a hamburger or cheeseburger with a tablespoon-size pat of butter stashed beneath the patty. The butter melts when the thing is assembled. It’s a rich tradition, for sure. I remember I asked the waitress (most every employee was female ― and over the age of 60) to explain the butter-on-a-burger tradition. She couldn’t. But she didn’t (like someone in New York might do) act like it was strange that I should ask her, as if I thought she was around for its invention. (I didn’t, of course.) She surmised ― friendly as can be ― that the butter burger must have come about because 100% sirloin “is very lean” and that butter makes a burger juicier.
So this time around, I decided to push for a real Milwaukee pizza experience ― not that I knew what one is. It worked.
Also on this visit, my sister-in-law, Lisa, mentioned that she’d recently learned or relearned how to pay euchre, a Wisconsin card game that I had played years ago but had since forgotten. Euchre, along with Leinie’s beer, is romantic Wisconsin stuff to me. In my imagination, any Wisconsinite worth his/her weight in beer would have a monthly get together at a barn somewhere, where s/he plays euchre and drinks Leinie’s most of the night long.
Leon's, 2013
Once Lisa brought up euchre, that was it: weekend decided. We’d play a lot of euchre, go out for real Milwaukee pizza, and ― as an extra bonus special ― we’d also swing by Leon’s, Milwaukee’s 1940s-era frozen custard stand upon which the fictitious Al’s Diner from “Happy Days” was based. I'd been there once before and was reminded, this time, of what a beautiful canvas it presents: all kinds of people, car culture, inexpensive prices, and delicious and sweet frozen custard. (Rollover above photo for a peek at the employees, their attire, and the cone-making that goes down on a typical summer Sunday evening.)
For pizza, which is the primary subject of this post, we went to Maria’s, a pizza business that dates back to 1957.
I had read Adam Kuban’s 2009 review of Maria’s on the “Slice” blog and, based on what he wrote and the pictures he’d posted, I knew here was where I wanted to go.
(Sister-in-law had proposed a place called Zaffiro’s, which was also on my short list. But when I learned that Zaffiro’s is a movie theatre place where you eat the pizza in the theatre while watching a movie, I had to veto. Interesting concept, I thought, but I wanted old school Milwaukee.)
(It turns out, actually, that Zaffiro’s is an old school place. The original location is owned by members of the founding family. Apparently a name-sell along the lines of the one negotiated by New York’s Patsy’s Pizza must have gone down. Next time I’m in Wisconsin it’ll be the original Zaffiro’s.)
Part of the sign at Maria's is equipped with motion-neon,
but Milwaukee won't allow its use because of the shop's "highway" location.
So, Maria’s. Any mere mortal would fall in love with Maria’s as soon as they see the signage outdoors. In New York, most of the signs like these were torn down in the ‘90s. But then ― for those of you superheroes who can stand strong and firm on evaluating a place for the pizza alone in the face of such excellent signage, I dare you to stand strong on your pillar of pizza-importance once you enter this place. You can’t. Or I should say, please don’t (and if you have no idea what I’m talking about, and how place matters as much as food, then please read this recent post about my time last summer in Calabria, Italy).
Because when you enter Maria’s, with its festive light-strings arcing from the ceiling, its mostly-over-40 personnel, and the abundance of religious images and iconography that hogs up every available space along the walls ― and in the glass enclosure below the pay counter ― and on the outside, below one of the amazing signs ― well if you don’t fall in love from these details right away, then perhaps you should reevaluate your priorities.
The imagery doesn’t end with the signs and religious icons. It also factors large when it comes to the pizza itself. These pizzas are oblong ― actually rectangular with rounded corners ― and when they’re delivered to your table, they extend well beyond the edges of the trays upon which they’re served.
I asked Bonnie (daughter of the original Maria; she’s the amazing blond woman in some of the photos) why Maria’s doesn’t use bigger trays. Bigger trays cost a lot, she told me.
I realize now that when I asked her that question that I still didn’t get it. Why should they change this? If the pizza happens to droop over the edge, then it droops over the edge. End of story. (Or is it? I have since reflected on the droopage and have come to realize that the charm of pizza overflow may carry one single liability: oil. More on this below.)
Pizza burst onto the US foodscape big time in the 1950s and I imagine several original spots still remain in many American towns. This should be a dining category all on its own: “Authentic ‘40s-‘60s Pizzerias.” To qualify, a shop must be the same as it was, both in decor and in pizza.
I should tip my hat at this point to Santillo’s, in Elizabeth, NJ ― five minutes from the Goethals Bridge. Santillo's offers an era-by-era menu of pizza and thus functions as a no-frills archive for styles of pizza from different points in time. See his menu here (pretty awesome-cool, but please note: there is no seating at Santillo's.)
Ah la la, back to Maria’s. The decor, the owner, the style and shape of the pizzas, the exquisite quality of the sausage (I'll say it again, the exquisite quality of the sausage!) ― and their method for applying it to pizzas ― all collude to make going there worthwhile. I loved it. (Click the top photo for a video of sausage pizza making at Maria's, or here for a larger copy of it.)
My wife’s brother Peter expressed jealousy about the pizza he witnessed at a neighboring table. He thought that the neighbor’s pizza’s ends (which also extended well beyond the tray) stood more erect than ours. Clearly, he had pie envy.
For sure, the best part of this pizza is its perimeter. The interior squares became soggy on the bottom and oily on top, perhaps due to the slope created by the pizza not fitting into the tray. But those perimeter squares with sausage? Great.
Upon reflection on the superiority of the perimeter slices and how these pizzas were shaped like elongated rectangles with rounded corners, I felt obliged to do a calculation based on the following question: if the edge of a pizza pie is the best part, does making the pizza rectangular yield extra perimeter? The answer is yes.
Here’s the math:
A large size pizza at Maria’s is 18” x 14” This gives the pizza a total area of 252 square inches and a perimeter of 64”.
Employing the equation for the area of a circle, Area = π r2, we discover that a round pizza with the same amount of square inches (252) must have a radius of 8.96”.
We then use the equation for a circle’s circumference, Circumference = 2π r, to determine that its perimeter is 56.26”.
Thus, with area set as a constant at 252 square inches, a rectangular pizza has about 7.75 extra inches of perimeter. At Maria’s, this means more-better-more-crispy.
(I’ve forgone consideration of the rounded corners on these pies, but I suspect that they would add to the perimeter value. Any takers on this math challenge?)
I should note that that the pricing of Maria's pizzas is a little odd — and to be honest, it rendered the inlaws rather flummoxed. The menu contains certain combinations of cheese (which is the name for what we east-coasters call “plain” pizza), pepperoni, and sausage — and in addition, it intermingles the terms “Supreme” and “Special” with single or double asterisk notations, about which one must look to the key at the bottom for definitions (see menu here).
The point is, large pies cost only $1.25 more than small ones. Puzzling? Not really. It leaves us with a simple choice: get the beyond-the-tray large, for a higher value pie; or get the slopeless and less soggy small, for more even distribution of the oil.
So there you have it. Milwaukee pizza. I wish Maria’s had had beer and that I hadn’t devoted all of my non-eating time there to taking notes and photos for this blog piece. Because then, I’m pretty sure, if there had been beer there would have been Leinie’s, and if there had been Leinie’s — and if I had had more time —then I know for a fact that we would have played euchre.
Maria's Pizza. 5025 West Forest Home Avenue, Milwaukee, WI. Tel. 414-543-4606. Map Maria's. Hours: Tuesday - Sunday 4 pm - 10 pm (closed Monday).
When we have people over for dinner we try to have something ready right away. Drinks for sure, but also something to eat. Mainly due to time constraints, we don't often have a lot of time for this part of the meal. So unless the evening involves a taco bar (in which case chips & guacamole are in order), we keep it easy by putting out a few cheeses, some bread or crackers, and maybe some olives. It doesn’t take much to please arriving people.
However, when there we want to go that extra mile, there’s one thing we like to make above all else: cheese toasts like the ones we encountered years ago at Chateau d’Uzer, a chambre d’hôte (B&B)in a tiny town in Ardèche, a hilly and gorge-dominated département in south-central France.
I like to imagine that Chateau d’Uzer’s proprietors extraordinaire ― Eric and Muriel Chevalier―invented these toasts, but I really can’t be sure. I’m not an expert on French cooking and Eric and Muriel told me that neither had been a “professional” food person prior to their opening Chateau d’Uzer in 2001. (Based on the many times I've had their food, I of course find this hard to believe. But in France (like anywhere, I suppose) lack of professional training means nothing. Foods and preparations like these toasts, I’m sure, have been passed down and/or evolved through generations. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.)
But take it from a guy who likes toast a lot (I eat it almost every day for breakfast). These are some darn good toasts.
Toasts d’Uzer, as we should call them, are thin slices of baguette topped with gruyère, cream, chopped basil, salt, and pepper, and then baked. The cheese on top browns, the edges and bottoms turn crispy, flavors meld, and the cream ― well, it seems the cream disappears!
Just as with Jim Lahey’s onion pizza, where paper thin slices of onion are mixed with heavy cream, thyme, and salt before getting baked at 500 degrees F. for thirty minutes ― these toasts also emerge from the oven with no evidence of cream. I think the cream functions to first soften the tops and then it just cooks away.
Below is an approximate recipe for Toasts d'Uzer. Feel free to substitute a similar, meltable hard cheese for the gruyère and a different herb for the basil. But I encourage you to go with the standard recipe first (unless you can’t find gruyère or it’s too pricy ― in which case I suggest Danish fontina or aged asiago with basil or chives.
Toasts D'Uzer
1 pound (454 g) gruyère, grated
8 ounces (250 ml) heavy cream
2 tablespoons (30 ml) finely chopped basil, and salt & pepper to taste
2 baguettes
1 Preheat oven to 425 degrees F (215 degrees C).
2 Cut the baguettes into thin slices, at an angle for larger pieces if desired.
3 Lay slices onto a baking sheet in a single layer. You can use parchment paper for baking to make cleanup easier, but it may result in less crispy toast.
4 Combine cheese, cream, basil, salt, and pepper in a bowl. You don’t need to follow exact measurements: pour the cream in last, and when it begins to pool through the bottommost shreds of cheese, stop pouring (see above photo).
5 Stir until cheese shreds are wet and the basil seems evenly distributed. (At this point, you can cover and refrigerate the cheese mixture until you're ready to make the toasts. You can also leave out the slices of bread, since slightly stale bread results in crisper toasts.)
6 Using a teaspoon, top bread slices with the cheese mixture. Press down slightly with back of spoon to ensure the mixture adheres. Avoid spillover for easier cleanup.
7 When all slices are covered, bake for approximately 13 minutes, or until tops are browned (see photo above). If necessary, rotate the pan or remove finished pieces to ensure even cooking.
8 Remove toasts with a hard spatula, digging underneath each one to protect the crunchy bottoms.
9 Serve hot.
There you have it: toasts d’Uzer. Perhaps because our fondest memories involve alternating bites of toast with sips of cool rosé (the French, at least in the south, are not averse to adding a single cube of ice to the wine), that’s what we do. Toasts, rosé, good conversation, and dinner.
I've posted to my photography website a series of captioned photos from Chateau d'Uzer. They tell the story of this amazing place and all the work its two owners do in order to keep it running. Here a link to that photo series.
(Here's a link to a printable pdf of the recipe.)
Chateau d'Uzer. Le Château, 07110 Uzer, Ardèche, France. Map Chateau d'Uzer. Meals served only for overnight guests. Consult website for details. Facebook page.
Place is the place from where you sit to view the space.
I wrote that sentence as the opening line for an epic poem that I started years ago but didn’t finish. Hundreds of pages of sheer poetic genius but alas, not much plot. Actually, there was a plot ― I just didn’t get around to including it.
I was reminded of the sentence when I began to consider how to best describe a certain pizza experience that I had last summer in Calabria, Italy. Yes, food is important, but setting matters also. In the 1976 story “Confessions of a Crab Eater,” Calvin Trillin theorized that “the quality of food a place offers is often in inverse proportion to the splendors of its scenery.” I have found this true many times, but it isn’t always the case, and it certainly wasn't at Gypsy.
I imagine Mr. Trillin would agree that the meaning of “splendor” can vary. Whenever I eat pizza at old spots in New York or some other city I fixate on visual details that would not qualify as “splendor” in the natural beauty sense of the word, but because of their history and lack of pretension or irony, they do cause my heart to go thump-thump: old cash registers and ovens and floured aprons; colors that don’t exist anymore in paint or appliance stores but that survive as walls and counters and floors of old places such as pizzerias and auto repair shops; signs of all kinds; and best of all, people (especially pizza-makers) and how they work ― in particular, when they are busy.
Mark Iacono at Luclai, Brooklyn NY, 2009
The age of a shop’s interior (or that of the person making pizza― or another food) can add layers of story to a customer's food experience. But there are young guys and new places that pull off the new in an old good way. The Zen expression of Mark Iacono at Lucali, where warm lighting replaces fluorescence to render a Rembrandt-like canvas of pizzeria romance. And at Cotta-Bene, at Third Avenue and Carroll Street in Brooklyn, where I enjoyed several squares of “Grand Ma Josie” the other night. Besides being a good spot for pizza, Cotta-Bene also succeeds in the marriage of two normally disparate vibes: Pizza Counter Vibe and Comfortable Restaurant Vibe. Nice job, Cotta-Bene!
Anyway, back to Calabria, Gypsy, and “place is the place from where you sit to view the space.”
Where the fish get cooked at Gypsy.
In Calabria I encountered more better splendor than that at my favorite gritty spots in New York. I should add, by the way, that Rossano, the town we stayed in, is not a fancy place. From all appearances, it is a vacation spot geared toward Italian working-people. But let’s face it: sitting on a chair at a table on a platform on a beach in Italy eating pizza and fresh fish and drinking wine, all for about $12 per person, wins. When you look north along the shoreline and factory smokestacks in the foreground supplement the beauty of those distant shores beyond (which, in this case, were a segment of a turn from the outline of Italy’s boot-like shape) ― it wins. Even if such splendor happens to indicate a decrease in food quality, let's forgive a little.
So hey, you hardcore connoisseurs and critics and celebrants of all things new and gastro-cultural: relax a little! Overlook slight imperfections if you happen to find yourself in the presence of real splendor. Eat pizza somewhere different, perhaps at this treehouse in Japan ― or at Gypsy, in Calabria. Enjoy life!
We were lost from the moment we arrived in Rossano because all I had brought were turn-by-turn directions printed from Google. Note to everyone: don’t do that. As soon as we passed a street without a sign, we worried that it could have been our turn. Under the belief that perhaps we hadn’t yet traveled the stated 5 km from our last confirmed turn, we drove a bit further, passing even more streets without signs. (In Calabria, we passed very few streets with signs.)
It was a town. Cars were everywhere. Because of the traffic ― and because I figured the chances of finding an English-speaker were slight ― I drove on for longer than I should have. "Stop and ask someone," my wife kept saying. "I'm hungry," my daughter kept saying. Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere to pull over. Finally, a gas station. No attendant to help motorists, so I went inside, leaving my wife and six-year-old daughter in the car.
Everyone seemed busy: one employee was cashiering a trickle of customers; another was managing an instant lotto game along the lines of “Quick Draw” (a New York bar game in which a new set of numbers ― and thus, a new opportunity to bet money ― is announced on a screen every four minutes); and most of the customers in the store were playing this game. (Here’s an article that describes New York's “Quick Draw,” and how Governor Andrew Cuomo would like to allow it in more places.)
The people of this store were friendly and many offered to help us. The problem, of course, was language. I can lure someone in with a solid sentence or two of Italian, but I don’t fool them for long. And once an Italian becomes aware of my limitations, he/she bows out of the conversation.
But something had to give, and after several broken conversations, it was decided that one of the bettors ― he wore khaki pants and a tucked in and buttoned short sleeve shirt, and appeared to be in his mid-60s; it was a Tuesday afternoon ― that in his own car he would lead us to the B&B, which it turned out was just five minutes away, but on the outskirts of town. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I asked him.
Tenuta Santa Caterina, the B&B in Rossano where we stayed, was outdoor home for many cats.
Rollover photo to see my daughter's fave cat. At the end of our visit, the owner offered any or all of them to us for keeps.
So this is how it went in Calabria. Though I often felt a little insecure when it came to directions (and we got lost several times), we did reach each destination during our three days there. Honestly, our success was due to the warmth and generosity of every Italian we met ― but especially Fulvio, the proprietor of Tenuta Santa Caterina, the B&B where we stayed.
That first night, when it came to choosing a dinner place, Fulvio suggested Gypsy, a pizza and fish restaurant in Lido Sant’angelo. Due to its picturesque location at the sea I was suspicious ― but I wasn’t about to make trouble. Earlier that day, my obsession with finding a legit lunch place in an area known for mozzarella di bufalahad caused a fiasco because I wouldn't stop at a restaurant where there were tour buses parked outside. The buses were there because the place was across the road from an Ancient Greek temple (photo below, or for more info: Paestum, Campania).
Having driven for an extra half-hour, completely famished and cranky, we arrived back to the same place with the buses and ate there. The buses were gone, but the place was still serving lunch. Of course it was delicious: it’s Italy. So with that having occurred just hours earlier, the glare I caught from my wife meant I’d better listen to Fulvio and get us to the Lido pronto.
From the frontside, Gypsy looks like a nightclub in the Miami of my imagination. When I first saw it, I thought to myself that there was no way the food would be good. But the nightclub looking front wasn’t exactly it. You must go around the back to the beach side of the place, for the restaurant.
Tables on a platform under an open-sided wood structure painted white extend outward and onto the beach. That's where we sat. Once they brought us some wine, a Limonata, water, and bread, our hunger and jittery nerves settled and we finally soaked in the scene that, for now at least, we owned: no one else was there until later in our meal, when other customers began to arrive.
I had a plate of grilled mixed seafood and some of my daughter's margherita pizza, plus my fair share of lemon torta and chocolate tartufo. The seafood included medallions of two types of fish (sword and something else), a couple types of shrimp, and several wide slices of calamari. The simplicity of the preparation (lemon, parsley, olive oil, salt, and pepper ― if my memory serves me correctly) allowed the freshness of the fish to shine through. Perfect in every way.
SLIDESHOW: Beach day at Gypsy
Pizzeria Gypsy from the beach.
It's a pebbly beach with few people.
Beers, allowed on the beach, are about $3.
One lunchtime customer had this, so I got inspired.
My lunch. About $9.
This hot pepper was no joke. (Calabria is known for its spicy food.)
The lifeguard caught a poisonous jellyfish.
(Handy jellyfish chart posted at the restaurant, to help you decide if you should call an ambulance.)
Jellyfish/lifeguard watching.
Then came the vendors.
Our second meal at Gypsy occurred during lunch on our third and last full day in Calabria. I decided on pasta with seafood because I spotted someone else having it and it looked good.
Beer on the beach, not a lot of people, a jellyfish incident and a couple of random vendors: we captured the day using the cellphone camera. Click the above photo for a slideshow from the day.
Our third and last meal at Gypsy was dinner that same evening. We each had pizza. Mine was the "Calabrese" ― a margherita with mushrooms and spicy Calabrian sausage (6 Euros). By now, we were regulars. We learned from the waitress that the owner had been a fisherman and has high standards when it comes to quality of fish. It showed. Thanks to our repeat visits and my brave attempts at speaking Italian, the owner got to know us and sent us some free mozzarella di bufala and ricotta di bufala that last night (the ricotta was the best I've ever had).
Here’s the thing: food like this is standard for Italy. First and foremost, good places serve food that comes from nearby, and they don’t make a big deal about it. And so together, Paestum and Gypsy reminded me of something really important: perhaps in many places food quality is in inverse proportion to scenic splendors ― just not in Italy.
Below is another slideshow, this of photos of our pizzas being made that last evening. After the meal, we stopped in for dessert at Yogurtlandia, where the only option was plain (barely sweetened) frozen yogurt, but where you can choose from many options of toppings and sundae-like sauces, any of which get layered into the frozen yogurt instead of just going on top. Duh!
Such a magical place Rossano, and ― so far as I can tell, entirely off the English speakers' radar. See for yourself: search the internet for "Gypsy in Rossano Calabria" (alternate spelling "Gipsy"). Not much there. Same with Yogurtlandia. But they're there. Oh yeah, they're there!
SLIDESHOW: Making pizza at Gypsy.
Calabrian sausage, the real thing.
Our three pies, pre-bake. They're about $7 each.
My daughter's pizza - closest thing to pepperoni is sweet dry sausage.
Finishing touches on my wife's pizza.
If, upon reading this story, you decide to visit Rossano, here's some helpful information:
The town has three sections. Lido Sant’angelo is the beach area at the water. About 1½ miles up a hill from Lido Sant’angelo is Rossano Stazione -- the “new” Rossano town ― it’s where the train station is and it’s where we got lost when we arrived. Up above, about three miles away from Rossano Stazione, is Rossano Storica ― the oldest section of the town (11th Century BC).
Indeed, our getting lost had to do not only with lack of good signage, but also because we didn’t know that Rossano has three parts and that the main highway has two sections with slightly different names: “Strada Statale 106 Jonica (SS106r)” and “Strata Statale 106 Ionica (SS106).” What’s up with the “J,” by the way?The Italian alphabet does not include “J.” What gives? Here's a map of the area.
I certainly recommend Tenuta Santa Caterina as a great place to stay. Not only is the owner (Fulvio) incredibly helpful, but the rooms are air conditioned, there's a swimming pool, the price is right (our room for 3 was 100 Euros per night), and ― if your timing is anything like ours was ― you could have the place virtually to yourselves. Request a room on the second floor.
Why did we choose Rossano? We chose it because of its proximity to Terravecchia, the Calabrian town from which two of my wife’s great grandparents emigrated. I also chose Rossano because it has a licorice factory.
In Italy:
Ristorante Pizzeria Gypsy (alt. spelling, Gipsy). Viale Sant'Angelo Lungomare, Rossano, Calabria, Italy. Map Gypsy. Hours: Lunch & dinner. No website. No Facebook page.
Tenuta Santa Caterina (B&B lodging). Contrada Santa Caterina 80, Rossano, Calabria, Italy. Tel. 011 338 2854958. email info@tenutasantacaterina.it. Map Tenuta Santa Caterina. Website.
Getting to Rossano, Calabria. The drive from Sorrento (where we began our day) takes about 3½ hours without stops. It's about 5 hours drive from Rome. We flew back to Rome out of the airport in Lamezia Terme, less than 2 hours from Rossano. The current summer fare between the two cities is $87 one way. Use http://www.skyscanner.com/ to find low cost flights within Europe.
In Brooklyn:
Lucali. 575 Henry Street, between Carroll Street & First Place, Brooklyn, NY. Tel. 718-858-4086. Map Lucali. Hours: Wednesday - Monday, 6 pm - 10 pm (arrive early). Lucali's Facebook page.
Cotta-Bene. 291 Third Avenue, at Carroll Street, Brooklyn, NY. Tel. 718-722-7200. Map Cotta-Bene. Hours: Monday - Thursday 11 am - 9:45 pm, Friday - Sunday 11 am - 10:45. Cotta-Bene's website.
I got it in my mind to pick up a shrimp parmigiana hero from MD Kitchen, a tiny restaurant owned by members of the family that owns Di Fara Pizza. Though MD is just a quarter-block away from bustling Avenue J, this part of Midwood feels different: people live here ― and some even have driveways.
Because MD Kitchen is tiny and seems best for picking up food to go, I ate in the car. I would have preferred to eat on the car but I didn’t have much time and so needed to keep moving. To eat a saucy hero in the car one must be careful not to drip. I’ve had practice at this ― I’ve ruined plenty of shirts over the years ― and so was able to eat this sandwich without a single drip.
I grew up going to the Pines of Rome, a restaurant in Maryland where every time I've been there, animal over-indulgence prevails over sophistication and restraint. We order (and eat) a massive and unnecessary quantity of food: first marinated roasted peppers and two different kinds of pizza, then a big salad and maybe fried zucchini, then main courses, and then I ― because I’m the worst offender in the group ― I eat whatever remains (such as extra slices of pizza).
The main course that I get at the Pines of Rome is nearly always ― sometimes I deviate and get soft shell crabs or linguine with clams ― but nearly always I get shrimp parmigiana. The Pines of Rome’s shrimp parmigiana is three large shrimps, butterflied and fried, topped with tomato sauce and mozzarella, and then broiled. It comes with pasta. Due to the excellence of this shrimp parmigiana, I became a seeker of good shrimp parmigiana in New York. I’ve tried it in many places but, sadly, what I’ve found is usually overpriced and never as good as it is at the Pines of Rome.
So when I read that MD Kitchen offers shrimp parmigiana (not all hero shops make it), and that people have praised it online ― these things, combined with the Di Fara pedigree and the $8.50 price point ― meant that I had to try it.
Bottom line: MD Kitchen’s shrimp parmigiana meets all of my criteria for good shrimp parmesan ― and more. The roll is toasted, so it doesn’t turn soggy right away. The sauce tastes naturally sweet (because they use good tomatoes) and not over-salted ― in other words, it, along with the bread and the cheese, are a perfect supporting cast for the star of the show: the shrimp.
These shrimp speak. They are juicy, plump, and large in size ― and they even taste faintly like the ocean.
The problem I usually have with shrimp parmigiana is that cheap or reheated shrimp possess neither flavor nor texture. MD Kitchen’s shrimp crackle and crunch, even under the sauce and from within the bread.
So there. MD Kitchen. You could go solo and make it your destination of the day. Eat in the car. Or even better, don’t hurry like I did, and eat on the car.
Or, if you have a couple of people, put in your name for a pie at DiFara and get a first course at MD Kitchen. Heck, if you can master the timing of a Di Fara/MD Kitchen combo meal (query: can you eat MD at Di Fara's tables?), this would be publishable information as far as Pizzacentic is concerned.
MD Kitchen. 1012 East 15th Street (between Avenues J & K), in the Midwood section of Brooklyn, NY. Tel. 917-789-9556. Map MD Kitchen. Hours: Daily 8 am - 5 am. MD Kitchen's Facebook page.
I have visited Miami only two times, each just for a day: first in 1998, when my wife’s family treated us and her siblings and their spouses to a Caribbean cruise that left from there; and second, this past April (2013).
In 1998 we flew in, went to the beach, and gawked at the creamy green hue of the water (rollover above photo for a recent shot). My wife reminisced about the year she had spent living there and how she had rollerbladed the path along the ocean nearly every day. When we got hungry we hit two different food spots ― La Sandwicherie, and a Cuban coffee shop ― and then headed to the ship. La Sandwicherie made a lasting impression and I knew, one day, I would return.
It's the sort of place that can exist only where the weather is warm year round. About ten stools line a counter and face from the outside looking in, into a tiny space where employees, who can barely fit past each other, work their butts off making sandwiches all day long.
It was fifteen years ago but I remember that I had a tuna sandwich. I mean, of course I had a tuna sandwich. I associate tuna sandwiches with Florida because my grandparents made them ― along with Sizzlelean beef bacon― when I visited when I was younger. I also recall that of Sandwicherie's many gratis toppings, the cornichons were what made the place French. I know, not much to go on, but continuez svp....
Time passed. I visited Florida several times over the years but did not make it back to Miami until last month. Again, a one day visit― and again, beach, then La Sandwicherie. No Cuban coffee this time: we were with our seven-year-old daughter and my 94-year-old grandfather, and we had to get back to Boca for pool time.
It took a few minutes to snag seats but I was happy once again soak in the details of this unique place. An easygoing all-ages crowd dines at the counter while employees somehow fit into tight prep space inside.
Customers’ orders scribbled on tickets arrive from the counter, the to-go window, and via telephone. A sandwich guy assesses and prepares each order, one at a time. He grabs and slices bread, lowers himself to reach into a refrigerator cabinet below the counter, and pulls out plastic-wrapped meats and cheeses. These packages fly from his hands like curve balls toward home plate, some landing precisely on the cutting board, others missing by a long-shot and landing into the bins of vegetables beyond. With metal tongs in one hand and a glove on the other, he opens each baguette-length packet with the tongs and layers them onto the bread. He then races through the collection of those gratis sandwich toppings: cut squares of romaine lettuce, tomato slices, green & hot peppers, black olives, onions, cucumbers, cornichons, mayonnaise, and vinaigrette.
Okay, hold it right there. Rather than continue this description of Sandwicherie’s amazing sandwich process, we must address the vinaigrette. This is the secret sauce that makes Sandwicherie stand out. Time and again, we watched as customers with their sandwiches would first add a drop to their next bite, taste it with intrigue, and turn it into a habit.
This vinaigrette mania could redefine how we make sandwiches.
In the video linked from the above photo, you can see for yourself how Sandwicherie rolls. (Or view higher res version of the video on Pizzacentric's Vimeo page, here.)
And if Miami is not in your upcoming travel plans but you want to try the vinaigrette ― Sandwicherie sells on its website for $5 a bottle.
La Sandwicherie. 229 14th Street (at Collins Court), Miami Beach, FL. Tel. 305-532-8934. Map Sandwicherie. Hours: Daily 8 am - 5 am. Sandwicherie's website; Sandwicherie's Facebook page.
I see them in pizza shops but of course I don’t get them: I’m there for pizza. Anyway, I try to avoid reheated fried foods. Rarely, in New York at least, are Italian rice balls made fresh and not reheated or kept under heat lamps ― so they become damp with oil. On the few occasions I’ve had them, it’s been from places that fry them up fresh to order. A couple years ago I wrote about the made-to-order ones at Joe’s Superette, a now-since-closed shop in the formerly-Italian neighborhood where I live. In the video, my friend Nick (Pizzacentric’s Sicilian Critic) comments on those rice balls and on rice balls in general. He says they are good but that the rice is overcooked. A couple of years later I visited him and his family in Catania, a city in Sicily famous among Italians for its rice balls. He brought me to Savia, a stand-up rice ball bar where the one I tried was far superior to any I’d had before. It had texture, freshness, and rich meaty flavor ― and its rice was cooked al dente.
Now I know this may not shock, but Italian rice balls are not the only ball-game in New York. Among the numerous ways people around the world prepare rice, the making of balls with it is not uncommon. Chinese, Philippine, Vietnamese, Japanese, Brazilian, and I’m sure plenty of others each have a version of the rice ball. Many appear in soups or as dessert, not all are fried, and mix-ins vary wildly.
Last week my friend Mana S. brought me to Cafe Zaiya. It’s a Japanese food shop on a section of East Forty-first Street known as Library Way. (Library Way begins at the New York Public Library’s main branch at Fifth Avenue, and extends two blocks eastward. Its sidewalk features embedded bronze plaques with quotes from famous books.)
Hundreds of people flood through Zaiya’s doors during lunch hour and select from an array of affordable and freshly-made Japanese foods. I sampled a number of items, including a yakisoba pan (a sandwich of fried soba noodles, cabbage, green seaweed, onions, carrots, and pickled ginger) ($3); a vegetable croquette (it’s like an Italian rice ball but with mashed potatoes as its sole filling) ($1.50); and a “FUJI-TFT” bento box containing broiled salmon, Japanese pumpkin (it has edible skin), tamagoyaki (egg), hijiki (seaweed cooked with carrots and konnyaku), carrots and gobou (burdock root) made with soy sauce, and a salad ($8.75). I also sampled four different types of Japanese rice balls called onigiri (pronounced oh-nee-ghee-dee, with emphasis on the second syllable “ni” and with the “r” spoken with a soft “d” sound) ($1.75-$2.25 each). (Rollover above photo to for a photo of our $8.75 bento box.)
The onigiri look nothing like rice balls, but the proof that they are in fact rice balls sits smack in the middle of the shop, in the form of a sign that says “Rice Balls are HERE.” It points to dozens of thick black triangles with red pull tabs, arranged in rows atop a metal shelf.
An onigiri contains white rice and some other key ingredient concentrated, amongst the rice, toward its center; and each is enveloped in nori (the kind of seaweed used for sushi rolls). The four onigiri we ate were salmon, spicy tuna, spicy shrimp tempura, and ume (pickled plum).
The rice of a spicy shrimp tempura onigiri surrounds a single fried shrimp whose tail emerges from the top of the triangle. Yes, you can eat the tail. With the spicy tuna and salmon onigiri, a small amount of fish combines with added salt and the rice to compel more eating. The ume onigiri is sour and strong, different than anything I’ve had before, and ― while I don’t know if it’s to become my favorite flavor ― it is worth trying.
The stand out feature of onigiri is the crunch conveyed by the nori (and that it's kind of like a poor man's sushi roll substitute). But never before ― and I’ve had plenty of sushi rolls over the years ― have I enjoyed nori so much. As the wrapper component of onigiri, it offers a precision crackle at the start of every bite ― a crackle that breaks up what would otherwise be a monotony of softness. It contributes textural complexity. If paper could crunch, here's what it would be. How does it happen?!
The science becomes apparent when you unwrap your onigiri. Follow the instructions printed on the side of the package. Of course, the plastic wraps around the surface to protect the food from dirty hands, but it also wraps through the underside of the nori and insulates it from the moisture of the rice so that it can remain brittle and dry. The instructions do not say this, but be sure, after step two, to spread the nori “wings” (fold out the sides) so that when you pull off the plastic, you don’t rip the nori.
There should be a design award for this packaging job! (I searched but could not find evidence that such an award has been given, but I did find this video depicting an onigiri opening process.)
Mana was pretty happy with the onigiri, but rollover the photo to check out dessert.
A strawberry shortcake to be reckoned with ― and another packaging triumph at Cafe Zaiya!
The amount of filling within its center is meager. But it's just enough to convey ― in the case of the fish and shrimp options ― flavor reminiscent of its pricier maki cousin. The shrimp tempura has one shrimp. The tuna and salmon each have but a smattering of flakes. The plum has some plum. But the salt of the rice and brine and flavor from the fish offer just enough punch to make onigiri a healthy rice ball worth returning for.
I think I'm now obsessed with onigiri. I need to head to Library Way. At about $2 per piece, onigiri make an affordable lunch. But so do many of the foods at Cafe Zaiya ― and I don't want to fall into the trap of only having onigiri when I visit Cafe Zaiya. That would be like going to a pizza shop and only having pizza. (Oops!)
Mana mentioned that she likes Zaiya's "curry pan" (fried bread filled with curry) That, and some onigiri, will be on my menu the next time I get there.
Cafe Zaiya. 18 East 41st Street (between Fifth & Madison Avenues). Tel. 212-779-0600. Map Cafe Zaiya, East 41st Street, NYC. Hours: Mon - Fri 8 am - 8 pm; Sat 10 am - 8 pm; Sun 11 am - 7 pm. Cafe Zaiya has other locations. Consult their website for details.
A revolution is underway at Pizza by Certé, a small shop on East 56th Street in Midtown Manhattan. Its pizza pays tribute to the New York pick-up-fold-and-eat model, but the chemical-free ingredients they use are a rarity in the slice business. And, as if that’s not enough, Pizza by Certé offers its pizza at the not-upgraded price of $2.50 per slice.
Is this Eco-Pizza? Pizza by Certé has received three (out of four possible) stars from the Green Restaurant Association, a distinction not often pursued by small pizza shops. This means they do a lot of things right when it comes to the sourcing of food and supplies, the environment, and the efficiency of their physical space. The Pizza by Certé model of responsible restauranting — complete with gentle pricing — ought to function as a blueprint for how restauranteurs can do things right with food in the twenty-first century.
Every item on PbC’s menu reflects the same approach to sourcing, but let’s focus on the pizza.They use fresh mozzarella that was handmade by a small producer in Rego Park, Queens — not low-moisture processed mozzarella. They make their dough with King Arthur flour (a bleach-free, chemical-free brand sold at places like Whole Foods). And their sauce stands alone as something truly unique: they make it from fresh tomatoes all year round. No cans.
Let me repeat: it’s a New York pizza shop in the heart of Manhattan that makes its pies with fresh mozzarella and a sauce of fresh tomatoes, and sells a regular slice for $2.50.
To witness the preparation of PbC’s tomato sauce is to observe a task so Herculean in scope that one understands right away why other places don’t bother to do this. Why would they? In the American Northeast, the best tomatoes are grown in the summer and early fall; most winter tomatoes are tough or mealy and bland — probably because they were picked too soon and too far away, or they were grown indoors. But restaurants require consistency. Pizzerias need the same sauce throughout the year. Thus, cans.
Most of the canned tomatoes I’ve seen in the backs of pizzerias are from California or Italy. Because producers pick tomatoes from vines not a week (or even a day) too soon, canned tomatoes can offer natural sweetness all year round. Canned tomatoes can be very good.
Here is what pizzerias do: they open cans and follow one or more of these steps: strain away the liquid; crush, squeeze, or puree the tomatoes; add olive oil, salt, spices, and/or sugar, and finally, spread the result onto some dough with scattered cheese to make a pizza.
Pizza by Certé, on the other hand, prepares each batch of sauce with about one hundred pounds of fresh Roma tomatoes, four large onions, a pound of garlic, two cups of olive oil, and herbs.
First, they remove the tomatoes’ cores and score their tops. Then they blanche them to loosen the skins. Next, they ice them down to stop the cooking process, peel and discard the skins, and remove the seeds and the juice. (They use the seeds and juice to make a top-notch tomato seed vinaigrette. It’s served for free with garlicky scraps of cooked pizza dough every late afternoon.) What remains of the tomatoes (ie. the “meat”) gets pressed through the meat grinder attachment of a large stand mixer.
Tomato processing for forty pounds takes time, so while that's happening they also mince and cook the onions in olive oil until they’ve caramelized. About ten minutes before the onions are done, minced garlic is added. These steps take about fifty minutes.
Once the tomatoes are “ground” and the onions are done, the two parts are married together and simmered with bay leaves and sea salt for another twenty minutes, or until most of the liquid has evaporated.
Pizza by Certé employee Diego Ayala, as he tastes the sauce for salt and doneness. Here's a link to Pizza by Certé's sauce recipe (scaled down for home cooking).
The sauce is then removed to heatproof containers and industrial “ice sticks” are inserted to speed cooling. The sauce is refrigerated. When it has cooled, finely minced fresh thyme, marjoram, and basil are added. The sauce is now ready for pizza-making.
(Photo at top of this post links to a video that shows how Pizza by Certé's makes its sauce.)
Imagine you own a pizza shop. Would you process three hundred pounds of tomatoes each week? Or would you open cans of perfectly good Italian or California tomatoes? Because really, why would you want to deal with inconsistent quality, inferior winter tomatoes, and fluctuating product costs?
Pizza by Certé owner Edward Sylvia told me that customers, after trying the pizza, often ask what tastes different and if there’s something missing. He replies to them, “Yes, something is missing. The can is missing.”
Yes, the can is missing. Sylvia believes that cans impart a metallic flavor to tomatoes and that we don't notice it because we are so used to them. When you taste Pizza by Certé's pizza, you will notice that its sauce is clean and bright and sparkly.
And it's sweet — even in the wintertime! How?! The trick, as you may have surmised, is with the onions. When tomatoes are sweeter — as they are in the summer and early fall — PbC uses fewer onions; in the winter, when tomatoes aren’t as good, more onions. One hundred grams of onion contain about four grams of natural sugar. Slow cooking onions sweats those sugars out into the open.
So why did Edward Sylvia, a busy Long Island guy with three kids and a successful catering business, decide to open such a thoughtful pizza shop?
“It’s what happened to Midtown,” he told me. “I wanted a good slice of pizza and I couldn’t get one. And when I began to think about what I wanted to do [with the pizzeria I was planning] I knew I wanted to put my own philosophies into it. I hate fast food. My kids — I have young kids — I don’t want them to fall victim to that.”
When it comes to food, there is much to fall victim to in the world these days. Take pizza. It says on the Domino’s website that the “really good ingredients” they use are the “oldest secret to [their] success and the key to a delicious meal.” Yet, a quick survey of the ingredients list on the Domino’s website reveals that their foods are (of course) chockfull of chemical additives. Dozens are listed, but here are a few of the gems: L-cysteine (an amino acid produced from duck feathers, human hair, or hog hair), “Butter Flavored White Shortening Flake (wow), and dimethylpolysiloxane (an anti-foaming agent).
I realize Domino’s Pizza is fast food, but it happens to be the pizza that many people eat. According to its annual report, Domino’s 2011 revenue totaled over $1.6 billion (includes worldwide sales for company- and franchisee-owned stores).
They had to pre-bake the pizzas at the restaurant because the tiny oven at the park burns extremely hot.
Do not mistake the rainwater-fed basil that grows along the walls, the sauce from fresh tomatoes, the pH-filtered water, the “green” pizza boxes and the twice-a-week composting, the gluten-free “socca” pizza option, and the dozens of other health-oriented and environmentally-responsible features of Pizza by Certé’s business model as gimmick. Edward Sylvia is the real deal and maybe, just maybe, his model can be come the model for responsible and price-accessible restauranting.
How does Pizza by Certé offer this pizza at such a competitive price when the other shops in this high-rent area charge the same or more? Sylvia leverages the buying power of his catering company to purchase good ingredients at good prices. And because he believes that pizza should be affordable, he passes his savings on to customers.
(Ray Bari, around the corner, sells a plain slice from an eighteen inch pie for $3.00. Its fresh mozzarella slice (called “margherita”) is $3.85. At sixteen inches in diameter, Pizza by Certé’s round pies are a little smaller than standard, but because the pizza has more nutrients and no chemicals or excess grease, you feel better from eating it.)
The gift PbC gives, however, is not just good slice of natural pizza for $2.50, but that his restaurant serves foods prepared with chemical- and preservative-free ingredients at all, and does not charge excessive prices for anything on the menu: TK ingredients sourcing details. These foods should be affordable and there was a time when this was what all food was — before corporate food took over and decided to do things with chemicals and hormones and other non-food ingredients.
I wish — and Sylvia does too — that more restaurants would challenge this Quality ↑ --> Price ↑ paradigm. As it is now, most inexpensive restaurant food is junk food. But chains with buying power can do better. And so too can businesses without high volume purchasing.
“I’m hoping that we can draw enough people and get a large enough interest where other business people and maybe young chefs will see that by doing the right thing they too can pick a food," Sylvia said. "I know the burger thing, good burger places now doing the right thing as far as being anti-McDonald's — but there are still a lot of fast foods that need to be done the right way. Because people still need to eat quickly and move on quickly. But it doesn't have to be pre-prepared."
I'm sure he would agree with me that it would be nice if everyone had the time to sit down to a healthful one hour lunch every day. Sadly, this cannot be the case — at least not for the countless many who work long hours and would rather get home earlier than spend "unnecessary" time eating in the middle of the day. Those people, if they happen to work in Midtown Manhattan, should give Pizza by Certé a try. They will know that the food they are eating is 100% from natural — not processed or chemical — ingredients.
Perhaps McDonald's and Domino's and Dunkin' Donuts and the others will catch wind of a rising consumer preference for unprocessed foods.
Wanna open a restaurant? Or do you already own one and you wish to change your approach to sourcing? Click here to view Edward Sylvia's guidelines for responsible restauranting.
PIZZA BY CERTÉ ESSENTIALS
Who: Edward Sylvia and a number of employees who share his enthusiasm for fresh ingredients and sustainability.
What’s there: The only mozzarella is fresh mozzarella and the only tomato sauce is made from fresh tomatoes. All ingredients are smartly sourced. All the food I’ve had is good, but there’s much I’ve yet to try. Thus far, my favorite pies are: Margherita, Lafayette, and Farmers (all round pies); and the Italian Wedding square pie (meatballs, spinach, grana padano, mozzarella, and hot peppers). The gluten free Margherita socca pizza (chickpea-based flatbread) oozes with cheese; it’s delicious. Chicken Parmesan sandwich is made with not-fried cage- and hormone-free chicken, fresh mozzarella, and the incredible fresh tomato sauce.
Where: 132 East Fifty-sixth Street, between Park and Lexington Avenues in Midtown Manhattan.
Why go: For a fresh food spin on pizza, hero shop favorites, and other naturally prepared foods at very reasonable prices. Warning: there are only about six stools for sitting, so most orders are to go. That said, I’ve never had a problem snagging a seat during lunchtime.
How: Proactive approach to food sourcing. Emphasis on freshness above all else. Owner loves and respects New York slice pizza style.
Quote: “ I love the crust. I like crusts that are airy, I like bubbles, I love big crispy bubbles, I like it chewy. I like a slightly charred bottom, not overdone but slightly. I like a tangy sauce. I want the cheese to play texture but not so much for the flavor but more of a texture feel. And I love herbs. I love biting in and getting an explosive herb flavor.” -Edward Sylvia, chef-owner of Pizza by Certé
411: 132 East Fifty-sixth Street, between Park and Lexington Avenues in Midtown Manhattan. Tel. 212-813-2020. 4, 5, 0r 6 train to 59th Street; E or M train to Lexington Ave / 53rd Street; or F train to 63rd Street. Map Pizza by Certé. Hours: Mon - Friday: 8 am - 9 pm; Sat: 11 am - 9 pm; closed Sunday. Pizza by Certé website.
I can't help but write again and again about my very favorite places. Anyway, why shouldn't I? The more time I spend somewhere, the more stories to tell.
The other day, I stopped in at Luigi’s Pizza for the second time in a week. I was on a mission to photograph pizza boxes. I’d seen them stacked in tall piles around the shop and in the back, and had noticed that many had the names of other pizzerias on them.
So it seems that Luigi's ― which is located on Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn, just a few blocks from the historic Greenwood Cemetery ― keeps its own cemetery of sorts on hand. A cemetery of other places' pizza boxes. Some are from pizzerias no longer in business; others from pizzerias that must have refused them or never received them due to printing errors; and still others from short term print runs for events or specials like discounted tickets for Broadway plays. I saw a stack of boxes for the play, "Spiderman." Yes, Luigi’s has all of these ― and plain boxes too.
Obviously, purchasing unwanted boxes must save Luigi's money. And in the pizza business, where the food should be affordable (and in a best case scenario, good also ― as it is at Luigi's), a few pennies here and a few pennies there add up to savings that matter. (Rollover top photo to see Luigi’s basement supply of boxes-in-waiting.)
Yelp reviews suggest that Stromboli’s in Acworth, GA
may have had pretty good pizza. Gotta love, “Behind the Chevron Station on Baker Grove Rd.”
For Luigi's, the goal of saving money is ― and I really believe this ― also about saving customers' money. Until two months ago, the shop hadn’t raised its prices for over six years. (The price of a large pie increased from $14.75 to $15.75. It's worth every penny.)
“Do you think our costs went up during those six years,” Giovanni asked me.
“You don't mind having the names of other pizzerias on your boxes?” I asked him.
“Mike,” he said (he calls me Mike ― and my wife, Kristin, “Chris”), “It doesn’t matter what it says on the box. When people see my pizza they know it’s my pizza.”
“Hey, I have an idea," I said. "You could get plain boxes and rubber stamp Luigi’s on top. That’s kind of cool. There’s a place in Williamsburg that does that, they―”
“Mike. Mike. How long has that place been in business?”
“Couple years.”
Luigi's opened in 1973.
I’ve given the topic of pizza boxes more thought than I’d like to admit (though not as much thought as has the creator of this picture blog about pizza boxes.)
The topic first arose a few years ago ― at Luigi's actually ― when Gio used scissors to cut a couple holes through the top of my pizza box. It got me to thinking about the science of hot pizza storage.
Yes, heat escapes through holes. But so does steam. And trapped steam can cause a sturdy (or even crisp) bottom to go soggy. Steam kills the pie. (Yes, a delivered pizza with a steam-soaked bottom still tastes pretty good. But it's not the same as straight out of the oven.)
Pulino’s in Manhattan has boxes with perforations in the top corners that when punched out, allow steam to escape. Plenty of other boxes have steam release tabs. Much of technology can go into a box.
I think about all these things perhaps too much. Giovanni has reminded me many, many times, it’s just pizza.
“Mike. It’s dough, sauce, and cheese. Mike. Dough, sauce, and cheese.”
But I know this: it takes confidence and consistent execution of good pizza to put your pie in someone else'svanity box. Luigi's stands as proof (and Giovanni knows it): it's the pizza, not the packaging, that counts.
**
Luigi's Pizza in Brooklyn, NY. 686 Fifth Avenue (between 20th & 21st Streets). Tel. 718-499-3857. R Train to Prospect Avenue or 25th Street. Map Luigi's. Hours: Mon - Thurs: 11 am - 10 pm; Fri - Sat: 11 am - 12 am; closed Sunday.
It's a family affair at Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino, in Vodo di Cadore, Italy.
Before getting to the highly-anticipated (and somewhat delayed) topic of Pizzacentric's 2012 Restaurant of the Year, let's first touch upon the topic of dreams. Because whether for money or love or a new job or no job, or the clean air of Alaska, or softer sheets ― we all wish for things. I love to travel with my wife and daughter; I’m always dreaming of our next trip. I wish I could speak other languages; but at best, I fumble through French and Italian. Of course, I daydream about food all of the time.
I've done my best to live these dreams, in particular, by visiting Italy (on a shoestring) as often as possible.
My friend's father is a retired American diplomat who has lived in different countries. I imagine his has been a life full of good food. I’m lucky because for many years he has hooked me up with tips, all of which have been in Italy.
Could truffles lurk beneath the earth's surface amongst these Umbrian trees?
First came Trattoria Cibocchi in Todi (Umbria) in 1996. Just one bite of the tagliatelle with shaved truffles and it became the standard to which I have since judged all pasta.1
Six years later, as my wife-to-be and I planned a visit to Siena (Tuscany), he suggested we stay at the Pensione Palazzo Ravizza. “Be sure to have dinner there. They have very good food,” he said. Spot on again: our meal in the hotel’s peaceful backyard garden was perfect ― and it didn't break the bank.
A year after that, in 2003, we returned again. This time it was our honeymoon. For a week, we stayed in an apartment in a small village in the Dolomite Mountains (Veneto). The area is close to Austria and in fact, has at times in the past been a part of Austria. Foods of the region reflect this. Casunzei anyone? (It's a ravioli-like pasta filled with beets and ricotta, and topped with poppy seeds and butter.) How about krapfen? (It's a donut filled with either marmalade, cream, or thick dark chocolate ― and then topped with powdered sugar.)
On certain hikes one encounters herds of cattle. This is me, with some bakery pizza I brought along for lunch.
As my friend (the retired diplomat's daughter) reviewed with us her hiking and food recommendations for our visit to the area, she mentioned that her father thought we should have dinner one night at Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino, in Vodo di Cadore. And, that I should order the stinco di maiale.
It was the first time he had mentioned a specific dish. It was also the first time I’d heard of stinco di maiale. It's braised pork meat that, with just a slight pull of the fork, detaches from its rather substantial bone. Alpino serves it with polenta and a brown jus specked with bits of rosemary.
The first time I had it it was enough food for two people ― but it was so good I ate it all. When we returned a few days later the serving was smaller. Adequate, but smaller. I hunted along the bone for secret pockets of meat and found some.
What would Americans think of inconsistency like this if it occurred in a restaurant in the United States? Pork shins of different sizes? They would complain. Because Americans assess restaurant food not only for flavor and mouth feel, but also for amount. I’m guilty of this ― though by the end of most meals I wish I’d eaten less (and I have noticed that when I eat slowly, smaller portions work fine).
So maybe Alpino did me a favor by not serving such a huge piece my second time there. Nowadays, I've tired of cookie-cutter stuff: American chickens that are all breasty and the same size, dirt-free produce that doesn't have taste, and so on. I like variation because in nature, things vary.
But enough about food politics and serving size and eat-speed. I have accomplished my goal: to thank my friend and her father for the many amazing recommendations they've thrown my way over the years. Thank you A & L ― and N & G, too!
Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino is along Route SS51 in Vodo di Cadore ―
about 20 minutes drive from Cortina d'Ampezzo, a ritzy ski town in Italy's Dolomite Mountains.
The goal of this post is to announce and explain and celebrate Pizzacentric’s 2012 Restaurant of the Year. So let’s go to the Dolomites, where the winner is... Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino!
You may be wondering, especially if you live in the United States, “Why is Pizzacentric giving Restaurant of the Year to a place so far away?”
Well, I ask you: what sort of restaurant should Pizzacentric name as Restaurant of the Year?
Should newness, million dollar financing, prime location, foam, or an air conditioned sidewalk be the criteria? How about the offering of homemade ketchup for a $4 surcharge? In New York, I feel smothered at times by restaurants that use wholesome ingredients but charge really high prices.
When it comes to pizza, I chuckle aloud whenever the Times or New York magazine or Time Out New York proclaims “New York’s Best Pizza” yet again. It’s a rotation that seems more random than fair but honestly, the task seems useless anyway: the breadth of pizza variety alone makes comparing pies an overtly-subjective exercise. What of Motorino? Did it decline in quality? Or does Kesté ― I mean Forcella ― I mean Don Antonio ― now make the best pizza? Really?! What about liftable slices? If hold ‘n’ fold matters to you (as it does to plenty of New Yorkers) then the hullabaloo over fork-and-knife pies is, at best, lip service to a single (and expensive) pizza style. Perhaps the magazines prefer newer places. Maybe they like to rotate their favorites up and down the list, based on... well, I shouldn't speculate. But I wonder, what about great old places like Totonno’s in Coney Island and Patsy’s in Harlem, or top-tier slice joints like Luigi's in Sunset Park ― because I think they belong in any list of important New York pizza places.
In the case of this award, selection is simple. It makes no difference where the contenders are as long as I’ve had their food and as long as their food is exemplary and priced fairly. Idyllic setting helps. And it should be a place where the people behind the food are the reason the food is good. But the food can be rooted in newly-born passion or inherited recipes. Either works, so long as it is heartfelt.
It’s all about love and authenticity. Please, no pretentiousness. Bloated egos need not apply. High prices: meh. Shit, I don’t even care if a place doesn’t serve pizza because at Pizzacentric, pizza is code for foods made with love. Of course, it doesn’t hurt if pizza is on the menu.
Rifugio Alpe di Senes, as viewed from the nearby hillside. Great fried cheese!
In July 2012, I returned to Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino for the first time in nine years. I knew even before entering what I would have. I'd had it for lunch a day or two earlier at a mountainside restaurant called Rifugio Alpe di Senes. Their stinco was a little more precious, and less rustic, than the Alpino version I'd had years ago ― but nonetheless, delicious.
Alpino's "Popeye" pizza has spinach and ricotta.
I also knew that Alpino's stinco would be enough food for me, but I also doubted I would get to return to Alpino any time soon. So, since I’d tasted my wife’s spinach pizza ― she had ordered the Popeye; it’s a thin-crusted cheese and tomato jobby with cooked spinach and soft, white-as-a-cloud ricotta (Euro 7,00) ― and since she loved it too much to share any more than one bite with me, I ordered for myself a pizza with mushrooms.
Scroll past the photo of Alpino's stinco di maiale to see what it looked like after I was done.
First they brought me my stinco. It was just as I remembered it: a big bone with tender pork that pulls off with nary a touch, rosemary in the jus, and a slice of polenta. A true culinary miracle.
I finished it and the waitress, whose name was Jennifer, cleared the plate and brought my mushroom pizza. I felt guilty. My wife said, "You're gonna eat a pizza now?" Everyone at the table looked at me. But after one bite, the stares didn't matter. It had the same thin crust as my wife's Popeye, but instead of spinach and ricotta, it had mushrooms. Amazing.
Alpinos offers choices when it comes to pizza with mushrooms. I had the cheapest of them (in addition to the stinco) ― and it was amazing.
Later, I found out that the mushrooms on my pizza came from a jar. And they were great! Here's why: Alpino is in an area where during the right season, people forage for good mushrooms. I doubt Alpino (or any restaurant in the area) would sell inferior ones. Customers expect good mushrooms. So the budget ones in a jar? They're jarred in olive oil, pure and simple. Not in water mixed with citric acid or things even worse.
I also found out later that Alpino offers three options for pizza with mushrooms: the one I had, which is called Funghi (Euro 6,50); Porcini (Euro 7,00); and Pizza ai Funghi Freschi (fresh mushrooms) (Euro 8,50). I hadn't spotted the pricier two on the menu or I would have splurged, but I know next time I'll get the Pizza ai funghi freschi (local and fresh porcini, galletti, and chiodini mushrooms picked fresh and cooked in parsley and olive oil).2
After my pizza course, the owners allowed me to visit the kitchen. The first thing I noticed was a pot full of mushrooms with a top layer of olive oil shining through in one corner. These were certainly the mushrooms that were part of my friend Nick's Piatto dell'alpino, a plate of mushrooms, melted cheese, polenta, homemade sausage.
Nick and his Piatto dell'alpino. Stretchy cheese: a pizza lover's dream!
I loved watching the people in the kitchen. It was an Italian family at work in their restaurant: one woman at the stove, another plating, a man and a woman making pizza, and Jennifer (our waitress) walking in and walking out. It was busy but not frantic.
Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino is run by three generations of the Zammichieli family working together. It was opened in 1974 by Jennifer's grandparents, Maria and Marcello Zammichieli. She was 33, he was 40. I don't know if this has always been true, but nowadays the only people who work there are family. I asked Jennifer if it's a good job, and if she would share her thoughts on working in a family-run restaurant. Here's what she said:
"A waiter in Italy earns 900 Euros and up [per month], depending on qualifications. Tips are not obligatory and lately, perhaps because of the [economic] crisis [in Italy], they are rare. A good cook can earn [upwards] of 2000 Euros [a month] and even more. As long as we can [all work here] we will continue [this way]. If any of us were to leave, we would try [to hire new] personnel. But nowadays, few will work a job like this, especially [because] you are forced to work even on weekends."
Cortina d'Ampezzo
The airport nearest to Vodo di Cadore is Venice, about ninety minutes away by car. People visit the area for hiking in the summer and skiing in the winter. The nearest large town is the charming (but pricey) Cortina d'Ampezzo.
Footnotes:
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Truffles have long been expensive ― even in 1996. But restaurants like Cibocchi had the inside track for "cheap" truffles because they came from nearby. Prices have skyrocketed over the years, in part due to forests shrinking, Euro gains against the dollar, and increased demand. I haven't returned lately to a truffle-producing area to verify this, but one Italian friend of mine told me they can still be relatively cheap in the local areas. "You have to know who to go to for the product. It's a relationship-based business," she told me.
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One evening, when we cooked dinner in our rented apartment, my friend brought a large orange mushroom that a neighbor in the village had found in the woods that day. Seeing it ― and tasting it (she cooked it up with some garlic) ― had me wishing I knew how to hunt for mushrooms. Did you know that you can bring found mushrooms to any Italian hospital and someone will go through your basket to separate the poisonous mushrooms from the batch?
Ristorante Pizzeria Alpino in Vodo di Cadore, Italy (Province of Belluno). Via Nazionale 40, Vodo di Cadore, Italy. Tel. +39 0435 489001. Map Alpino. Hours: 6 days/week for lunch and dinner (closed Thursday).
At forty-five, I feel old.
“You should avoid spicy foods,” my doctor said, as we discussed the possible causes of my recurring upset stomach. “Huh? No fried foods?” (My hearing’s not so good.)
“No,” she said. “Avoid spicy foods. And caffeine.”
Uh, oh. No more moderation bullsh*t like how I’ve winged it with meats and cheese and fried foods and (dare I say) pizza?
It hasn’t been easy. I love curries, pico de gallo, all matters of hot sauce (except for those that are hot only for hot’s sake), nose-burning wasabi and German or English or Dijon mustard, fiery jerk chicken from Flatbush, Pio Pio’s seductive creamy green ajì sauce ― all of it! For over twenty years my refrigerator door was filled with dozens of sauces. I can remember the exact flavor of Doxsee’s clam puffs dipped into a certain orange Scotch Bonnet sauce that is no longer in production. I contacted the manufacturer and I called stores all over, wanting to purchase any I could find. I got none.
With pizza, I often add crushed red pepper flakes ― but only after I've had a bite or two first. Gotta know what it’s all about, right? Even when under attack from the flakes, pizza somehow asserts itself. The heat from the types of peppers used to make flakes allows other, less spicy, components to retain their presence.
Obviously, not all peppers are so tame. Many years ago at Jaiya Thai in Elmhurst, a friend and I shared a tureen of tom yum goong that was so spicy we couldn’t finish it. We’d ordered it “medium” but afterwards the waiter told us he'd brought us “mild.” He pegged us for amateurs.
Wanna make your own hot pepper oil? I've used dried red chili peppers like these. Recipe link at bottom.
In Italy, instead of flakes restaurants offer “hot pepper oil.” It’s whole or crushed pods of small red chili peppers steeped in olive oil, often in an attractive glass bottle. Unlike flakes ― which do not dissolve and, along with oregano, can add unwanted texture to pizza ― oil presents a wholly different issue: oil.
In general, Italian low-moisture mozzarella doesn’t leach as much oil as does its American counterpart. Less processing? Superior quality? Not sure. I do know that hot pepper oil is a great option for spice when the cheese isn't oily, but when a cheap cheese leaches oil on its own, adding more oil seems like overkill.
Slice shops in the US offer self-service crushed red pepper flakes, dried oregano, garlic powder, salt, pepper, and sometimes grated cheese. We take these items for granted but I wonder, were they always part of the deal? The Daily Meal website did post a lengthy story that attempts "to solve the mystery of pizza and pepper flakes." The piece is thorough and interesting, but not definitive. (In one section, Lombardi's owner John Brescio claims hot pepper flakes have "been around since the beginning," ― ie. 1905. I've seen kitchen and dining room photos of Lombardi's from the 1930s and '40s: no evidence of flakes.)
Since pizza came from Italy to the US, did Italian hot pepper oil precede American hot pepper flakes? According to Pizzeria Brandi (one of the oldest pizzerias in Naples), peperoncino oil is only for English speaking customers: “We did not even have it at all until the first American customer asked for it. The original and true pizza recipe is without it.”
Is this Naples pizza snobbery? Scott Wiener, of Scott’s Pizza Tours in NYC, told me he suspects that pepper flakes (and the other dry condiments) became popular in the US in the 1950s. That’s when pizza took off in this country. (See Pizzacentric story about the growth in the number of NYC pizza shops here.)
Pizzeria Brandi's statement does give me pause. Are crushed red peppers or hot pepper oil déclassé? Yes, spice adds flavor; and no, it need not interrupt the flavors of pizza beneath. But it does work best with a pizza made with low-moisture, more oozy mozzarella, a sauce that has been doctored with spice, and a dough of chewy texture. Enter the realm of fresh cheeses (like fior di latte, buffalo mozzarella, or burrata) or undoctored natural tomato sauce or soft and yeasty dough ― and spice destroys nuance.
I’m American, goshdarnit. If I desire a flavor boost then I’ll add hot pepper ― flakes or oil! And I probably won’t listen to my doctor. Or maybe I will.
The truth is, I may have curtailed my spicy pizza habit because of my doctor’s warning (and due to my lean toward higher quality pizza these days) but I'm just making it up as I go along. For all I know, it could be stress that has caused the upset stomach.
But I feel judged. An Italian pizzaman views hot pepper oil as a thing to blame Americans for. Rather, if his history is true, he should thank Americans. The lovely hot pepper oil that now graces tables in pizza shops throughout Italy simply looks good (see top photo) and its use is entirely optional.
―
Pizza by Certé in Midtown offers 2 spicy options: Jalapeño Oil (delightful) and Habañero Sauce (deadly).
In New York, few places offer hot pepper oil. It’s at Best Pizza in Brooklyn, and both the Brooklyn and Manhattan locations of Fornino. Pizza by Certé, on East 56th Street, offers oils: jalapeño oil (delicious, and fitting for a novice) and a creamy habañero sauce (¡cuidado!). (Certé also offers a roasted garlic oil that beats the pants off gritty powder any day.)
Because modern American cuisine incorporates foods and preparations from cultures around the world, it’s no surprise that spicy foods have pervaded our cuisine in countless scenarios.
A couple weeks ago ― after I had eaten a regular slice and an incredible spinach empanada at Pagliaccio Pizzeria in Jackson Heights, Queens ―I saw a fascinating photo on the takeout menu (see above). The “Circo pizza,” is a pepperoni-sausage-pancetta-green pepper-and-onion pizza with a stand towering from its center. The stand holds three homemade hot sauces: chimichurri, red Mexican, and red hot peppers in oil and vinegar.
Doctor, can I try that? Naples, close your eyes!
The hot oil pie at Colony Grill, in Stamford, CT.
At the Colony Grill (two ― soon to be three ― locations in Connecticut), the most popular pie has “hot oil” as a topping. After roasting fresh serrano peppers in a blend of olive and vegetable oils, Colony then drizzles upon the center the oil from the peppers and a single roasted serrano prior to baking. Those peppers are also available as a topping ― they’re called “stingers.” On the Scoville scale, the hot pepper oil is quite mild. In truth, I think only Italy's most hardcore pizza puritans would be insulted.
In the American mainstream, no one has insulted pizza purity more than the big chains. A quick look to Domino’s website shows not only a Hawaiian Pizza (“Sliced ham, smoked bacon, pineapple and roasted red peppers, cheeses made with 100% real mozzarella and provolone on a cheesy Parmesan Asiago crust”) but also a Fiery Hawaiian Pizza (same as Hawaiian, but with hot sauce and jalapeños added to the mix). I have no inkling to try either of these.
Do you?
Adam Kuban, creator of the pizza blog "Slice," posted a story a couple of years ago. In it, he features Colony Grill's hot oil pizza as a springboard for preparing your own hot pepper oil. Nothing like homemade condiment, and this one's easy!
If you know of spots serving hot pepper oil, shoot me a message and I’ll add to the list.
Colony Grill in Connecticut. (1) Stamford. 172 Myrtle Avenue. Tel. 203-359-2184. Map Colony Grill, Stamford, CT. Hours: 7 days, week, 11:30 am until "late closing." (2) Fairfield. 1520 Post Road. Tel. 203-259-1989. Map Colony Grill, Fairfield, CT. Hours: 7 days, week, 11:30 am until "late closing." Colony Grill website.
Pizza by Certé in Manhattan, NY. 132 East 56th Street. Tel. 212-813-2020. Map Pizza by Certé, New York, NY. Hours: Mon - Fri, 8 am - 9 pm; Sat 11 am - 8 pm. Closed Sunday. Pizza by Certé website.
Blue crabs and foods comprising crabmeat are like soul food to old timers from the Eastern Shore regions of Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware. But the Chesapeake was over-crabbed. Demand expanded beyond the regional population. And importers began to bring (inferior) crab meat from other parts of the world. Prices continue to rise.
My grandmother was raised in a kosher home and never ate pork or any meat with dairy. But she loved crab cakes and shrimp and she broke kosher law by eating these foods. Her soul, it seems, was part Eastern Shore.
It would be an interesting study to trace the dissolution of loyalty to kosher through the past few generations. Why was shellfish an acceptable departure but not milk with meat?
Another family elder — who has asked to remain anonymous — also strayed from kosher. He eats pork sausage, bacon, and cheeseburgers; shrimp, scallops, and lobster — though never in his own home and not until later in life. But he will not and has not ever eaten crab. "Why?" I've often wondered. His reason, it turns out, has nothing to do with diet or religion or ethics or flavor.
About eighty years ago when he was a boy — it was an era when, I imagine, American shorelines were more accessible and less privatized, a time when children could wander and explore nature without paying admission (it was also a time when fireworks were still legal in Massachusetts) — he had an experience with crabs that etched to his soul a deep disdain for the creatures. It will never fade.
Here’s the story, as told to me by Mr. Anon, a 94-year-old relative of mine who happens to be a native of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Over the years he has told me many incredible stories from his life but until now, has not allowed me to share them with others. This one's a gem.
It happened in the summertime when I was about 14 years old, in Winthrop, Massachusetts, where I grew up. It was a beautiful time of life. It was nothing to walk through the water and climb up on a rock and as the tide came in, to look down and see lobsters and flounder and all kinds of perch. You could drop in a hand line and catch a bunch of perch and you'd have dinner for the day. The water was so crystal clear. The fish were so plentiful. Sadly, young people today cannot know of the bountiful nature that existed years ago.
On one particular beautiful day — just before the Fourth of July — the sun was shining, the tide was out, and I was walking in the shallow water to go swimming. It was a rocky beach — not sandy — and it was notorious for these large crabs that were about five or six inches across, not including the claws. You had to go through a lot of seaweed to get to the deep water and the crabs lived in this seaweed.
As I walked through to go swimming, one of them latched onto my toe — firmly. I yelled and kicked and threw him right off. But it hurt like anything!
So I decided to buy a whole string of firecrackers and untangle it so that I would have individual firecrackers. I walked out along the beach to where all the crabs were peacefully sunning themselves in the seaweed — blowing bubbles, happy as anything.
I approached one, and immediately his claws went up. I took a firecracker, put it between his claws and he clamped right down on it. I lit it, walked away, and watched [as he pulled the firecracker toward his center and] blew himself up. This was the prelude to the Hamas suicide bombers, you know.
And so I did that all along the beach, blowing up crabs from one end to the other. I must have done about fifty or sixty crabs. When high tide came in, it was crab meat washing all along the shore. Seagulls descended in droves for the free meal. They cleaned up the beach.
I love shrimp, I love lobster, and I love clams. I hate crabs. To tell the truth, I never had them before that day when I blew them up. And I never had them after. Many times people have tried to get me to try crabs. If they hadn’t bit me I might have had a different attitude.
But it was fun watching them blow themselves up — handing each one a firecracker that it thought was someone else’s toe. The firecrackers really made a bang. And that bang blew them up. It really was great to see them go to pieces. They deserved it. CH-CH-CH-CH-CH-BOOM!! I hope I got the one that [had grabbed] me. That’s the area of the beach I was working on.
I wouldn't hurt those crabs if I was back there again. I don't even know if I would kill a cockroach if I saw it in the house. I like to preserve life in nature. That's why, when I caught that snake in my apartment last year, I released it into the woods.
But it is a food chain. You have to accept that the nutrients we need are in the food chain. Some people don't. They're vegetarians. For me, the bottom line is: moderation in everything.
Blowing up fifty or sixty crabs with firecrackers serves no meaningful purpose. Clearly. And who am I to judge the ethics of Mr. Anon’s war on crabs in 1932? However, I do not think the story validly explains his refusal to try crabs. Crabs are good!
(My non-acceptance of another person's eating rules represents one of my greater flaws. Real hypocrisy. No one can talk me into eating organ meats and yet sometimes I get pushy and try to persuade others to eat something they don't like or want. I have said to vegetarians, that they should eat clams because clams have no central nervous system and really, they're more like celery than chicken. I don't even think this is true!)
Why do people dislike certain foods? Of course, a person would eat anything if his/her survival depended on it. But what about situations where life is not at stake? I don't know. (A top result of my search on the topic turned up this article. It's not very scientific.)
Before I get to clams — which of course I must do because I love clams and there's a clams part of Mr. Anon's story that belongs here also — I must add that he is a gentle human being. When I asked him how he can reconcile his demeanor of today with that of a formerly delinquent crab-bomber, he said:
I know a lot of people are conscious of protection of life, trying to contribute to the health of the environment these days. But in those days when I was 14, people didn't reflect on the environment or talk about environmental protection.
Okay, clams. After he told me the story of the exploding crabs, Mr. Anon reminisced about the clam chowder he has eaten over the course of his life. His memories almost culminate in a recipe, so I decided to include it here.
A couple notes. The "littlenecks" to which he refers are clams that others call "soft shell clams," Ipswich clams, or "piss clams." Twin breathing siphons protrude from one of the narrow ends of these elongated bivalve mollusks. (I wrote about them in this Pizzacentric story here.) I cannot verify the superiority of one type of clam over another when it comes to chowder, but I trust my Massachusetts source when he claims that these types of clams are the best ones for making a proper clam chowder.
Here's the "recipe" as he told it to me:
Littlenecks are wonderful clams. Back on Winthrop Beach you could just throw a rock down and they’d spurt up to let you know where they were. You’d then dig and pull up these big, beautiful clams. Bring them home, wash them in salt water so that they would expel the sand that was in them, and boil them in water until they opened. Then take out the meat, remove the skin from their necks, and drop them into a pot of potato cooked with onion and milk. This is a New England Clam Chowder. In one bowl of soup there should be about twenty clams. It's a delicious clam chowder, rich with littleneck clams. It's the kind of chowder that you can never find in restaurants today.
"Why not use other types of clams?" I asked him.
The razorback clams people dug up were the cheapest meat of all. For a while, there was a ban on digging up littlenecks. Howard Johnson and others used razorbacks and other inferior clams in their clam chowder and for their fried clams. The public never knew.
People don't know if a chowder is made with cherrystones or razorbacks or quahogs. What people call clam chowder may not be! I'm sure people today don't know what a real kind of clam chowder is about. Today's chowder ― at least outside of Massachusetts ― is far inferior to the Ipswich clam chowder I had in New England. Maybe you can still get it there today ― if you're lucky.
Check out the sign. Clams were a thing at HoJo's!
For all the years I've known him, until now I had no idea how passionate he is about clams. What kindred spirits we are! I'm trying to persuade him to accompany me on a clam-digging, chowder-making trip to Boston. When's clam season?
Bonus material. The exploding crabs got me to thinking about the fate of shellfish in the real world. I heard that seagulls break clamshells by dropping them from high up. I looked on YouTube to see if they do the same with crabs but couldn't find evidence that they do. (It seems seagulls eat crabs by beaking them until they die and break apart.) But here's a video of a seagull as it drops a clam in order to crack it open and eat it. Skip to the 38 second mark for the peak of the action.
A partly-consumed caesar salad at Peppino's in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I'm a fan of the pizza at the Pines of Rome in Bethesda, Maryland. I love how the pizzamen there press the tomato sauce into uncooked dough with their fingers so that the two become one, but yet how some tomato fragments manage to surface above the cheese by the time the pizza is finished cooking. I also love the white pizza. It’s made with olive oil, shallots, herbs, and with or without fontina cheese. The crust is crispy and chewy with underside air pocket craters.
I’ve searched long and far in New York for pizza similar to that of the Pines of Rome. I had thought that in a city as vast and vastly Italian-rooted as New York is — where pizza choices vary in both nuanced and obvious ways — that of course I would find worthy proxies for the Pines of Rome.
Good pizza? Yes. Worthy proxies? Fleeting and rare.
In Bethesda, Maryland, the Pines of Rome's white pizza — sans cheese.
For a time, years ago, I regularly inhaled slices at a place called Cristardi’s, where the texture of both red sauce and crust reminded me of the Pines of Rome. It was a tiny square room with no seats located behind a drugstore on a side street in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. There was no sign outside so, not only did I feel in-the-know, but the reward was the best pizza in a neighborhood replete with good pizza.
Cristardi's closed years ago and the drugstore has since expanded into their old space. I asked the pharmacist if he knew how to find the Cristardi's people and whether they had another place. I searched the phone book and the internet. I asked many neighborhood old-timers and pizza people. Ten years later, I still look. But no dice.
There's a lesson here: enjoy your favorite pizza while you can.
Eventually, I took to the practice of transporting both white and red pies, plus orders of the garlicky roasted red and yellow peppers, from the Pines of Rome back to New York whenever possible. I love cold storage.
View on a snowstorm from within Peppino's, in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
And then, discovery. Last week, my wife suggested we venture through a snowstorm to Peppino’s in Park Slope — a newish pizza/pasta restaurant with a wood- and gas-fired oven and a Bay Ridge pedigree. I had wanted to try a different and more-hyped pizza restaurant that night, but boy am I glad we went to Peppino's! Because Peppino's serves something that is as good a proxy for the cheeseless version of the Pines of Rome’s white pizza as I’ve had in New York.
The funny thing is — maybe because in New York, white pizza almost always has ricotta — Peppino’s doesn’t even call it pizza. Instead, it’s "Garlic Crisps.” I discovered these "crisps" only because they are served — in square cuts like those at the Pines of Rome — as croutons atop salad. When was the last time a caesar salad made your day?!!
Linda, the server, agreed with me when I pointed out how good they are. “I’m obsessed with them,” she said.
Crispy along the edges, tender in the center, and seasoned with minced fresh garlic, Italian parsley, and olive oil, they are not exactly the same as the Pines of Rome's white pizza without cheese — but they come close. I asked if they would serve them — instead of in a basket or atop a salad — as a whole pie. They said yes, ask for two orders of garlic crisps kept together as a pizza.
Peppino's large half-pepperoni, half-veggie pie.
One need not go to Peppino’s just to experience the fulfillment of Pizzacentric’s yen for Pines of Rome white pizza. Peppino's regular pies are also good.
Visually, they look a little like Joe & Pat's (and its brethren joints, Ciro and Pier 76 on Staten Island, and Rubirosa in Manhattan) except with thicker crust. And the small-diameter pepperoni you can get on a red pie (they curl up and get crisp around the edges) and the default use of fresh mozzarella each remind me of Lombardi’s.
Visually, the topside of a Peppino's pie resembles that of Joe & Pat's (and pedigree),
but the fresh mozzaarella & small rounds of crisp-edged pepperoni veer into Lombardi's territory.
I returned to Peppino's a few days later equipped with fontina cheese. They didn't mind adding it to my whole pie order of Garlic Crisps. Click the below photo of my custom white pizza with fontina for a short video of Hubert, Peppino's pizzaman, as he prepared it. It turns out, it was more like the white pizza at Geppetto, a DC restaurant owned my uncle than that of Pines of Rome. When I worked at Geppetto we liked to make red pizzas with that garlicky white sauce added on — so good! But all that's another story for another day.
Peppino's Pizza in Brooklyn, NY. (1) 469 Fifth Avenue (between 10th & 11th Streets, in Park Slope). Tel. 718-768-7244. F or G train to Fourth Avenue. Map Peppino's, Park Slope. Hours: Tues - Thurs, 11 am - 11 pm; Fri 11 am - 12 am; Sat, 11 am - 11:30 pm; Sun, 11:30 am - 10:30 pm; closed Mondays. (2) 7708 Third Avenue (between 77th & 78th Streets, in Bay Ridge). Tel. 718-833-3364. R train to 77th Street. Map Peppino's, Bay Ridge. Hours: Tues - Thurs, 11 am - 11 pm; Fri 11 am - 12 am; Sat, 11 am - 11:30 pm; Sun, 11:30 am - 10:30 pm; closed Mondays.
They used to say it’s the water -- why bread and bagels and pizza were supposedly better in New York. I don’t know if anyone has debunked this myth but I’ve found no good proof ― neither scientific nor anecdotal ― to convince me it’s true.
Perhaps it's that the skill of bread-making is not easily transferrable. I’ve seen bread master Jim Lahey sweat from frustration whilst prodding an employee to get the stretch right. The guy may have made bread but, pre-bake, it didn’t look like Jim’s bread.
I’ve had Pizza of Great Dough in New Haven and New Jersey and I’ve heard that great dough exists in SF, AZ, LA, and Chicago. I assume the owners of older spots mastered the art years ago and passed the trick along to next generations when the time came. I imagine that when it comes to the newer good spots, success of dough has come via a long journey of trial and error.
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I love the story Giovanni Lanzo told me about how when he was making dough in the back of his dad’s shop, Luigi’s, many years ago, his father would yell from the front ― without ever peeking ― feedback along the lines of, “It needs more water!” He knew from the sound.
Similar is the story of Luciano Gaudiosi, who now runs Sal and Carmine with his Great Uncle Carmine and his brother George. A few years ago, when Grandpa Sal ― the heart and brains behind S & C's pizza ― was on the verge of dying, heir apparent Luciano confessed his insecurity about taking over the business and, in particular, how he would get the dough right. He figured it out.
Sal and Carmine is in the vein of the many pizzerias that once dominated the streets of New York. At these places, it was a guy or two in there working, at least one of whom was the owner. Consistency of product was also important: homemade dough with a minimum one day rise, no preservatives ― unprocessed cheese.
Romantic, huh? I’ve observed that today ― in particular in Mahattan, where rents have become prohibitive for mom & pop shops like pizzerias ― many have either declined in quality, chainified, or shut down. People, thank the heavens, still appreciate homemade stuff. Even the Sbarro chain is banking on that (read this storyto see what it has planned for its locations).
Luciano at Sal & Carmine told me of his concern about how much the rent could increase come 2016. If it crosses above $10,000/month, he doesn't know whether it will be worth it to stay (the place seems to have about 750 square feet). Of course that’s the case: it's pizza, a low cost (and, I would argue, essential) New York food item. To state the obvious: you gotta sell a lot of slices and pies to make big rent. Let’s hope that when the time comes, it gets worked out.
In the meantime, watch the video (click photo above) to catch a glimpse of how valuable a multi-generational pizzeria can be. Topic of the day: dough. Then, head up to 102nd Street for a slice. A damned good slice at that!
Sal & Carmine Pizza in New York, NY. 2671 Broadway (between 101 and 102 Streets). Tel. 212-663-7651. #1 train to 103rd Street. Map Sal & Carmine. Hours: 7 days, 11:30 am - 10 pm. Sal and Carmine website.
Perhaps no pizzeria has inspired more hunger and admiration amongst pizzaphiles and food adventurers alike than Di Fara ― a classic corner joint in Midwood, Brooklyn. Lines snake out the door, the wait for even a slice can exceed an hour, and owner Dom DeMarco -- the man who makes all of the pies ― speeds up for no one.
I have written about the experience of waiting for pizza at Di Fara (awesome way to pass time!) and many have covered Di Fara with reverence for this man who does pizza the old-fashioned way.
But admiration for Dom aside, people go to Di Fara for pizza. Many places ― like Glaser’s Bake Shop and Russ & Daughters ― remain owner-run and convey multi-generational pride in everything they do. Things worth celebrating. But to my knowledge none have lines like Di Fara. Granted, Dom moves slowly and makes pizzas one at a time, but it's pizza that brings people there. Pizza. What is it about Di Fara’s pizza that makes such a splash? I asked the owners if I could weigh and measure the ingredients as Dom prepared pizza. Maybe I would find some answers. They said yes!
A tale of three cheeses. It turns out that with both varieties of pizza at Di Fara ― the square and the round ― it’s what Dom does with cheese that truly differentiates his pizza from others. By “cheese” I refer to any of the three general types he uses. Square and round pies both receive whole milk low-moisture mozzarella (a cheese common to most pizza) and grated Grana Padano or Parmigiano Regiano (both aged Italian cheeses). The square pie also receives fresh mozzarella ― either mozzarella di bufala or fior di latte (from cow’s milk), both of which are imported from Italy.
But what does Di Fara do with these cheeses?
Altering the paradigm. With the round pie, Dom uses slightly more grated cheese (usually grana padano) than mozzarella. To my knowledge, no other place does this. The result is cheese-borne saltiness that finds its perfect counterpart in Di Fara’s good tomato sauce. Try it at home: make a pizza, however you normally would, and use at least as much grated grana padano as mozzarella. Drizzle on a little olive oil and voilà - the Di Fara flavor.
Defying physics. Dom again alters the paradigm with his square pie, a triple cheese-and-sauce power combo. Ask for extra cheese at most pizza shops and it means a thicker coat of the same stretchy and congealy mozz. The cheese on Di Fara’s square is 40% whole milk low-moisture mozzarella, 40% fresh mozzarella from Italy (either mozzarella di bufala or fior di latte), 20% grana padano. Its twice-baked dough, though topped with over 2¼ pounds of cheese and sauce, defies physics and comes off light, airy, crunchy, and chewy on the bottom and, yes rich, but also refined on top.
I’ve seen how, when Dom has more than one square pie in the oven, the room can get a little smoky. The day I went to measure and weigh ingredients was a big day for the square. It happens because olive oil, liberally applied onto the pan’s surface below the parbaked crust, has splattered onto the hot oven surface. I wouldn’t attempt this pizza at home! Instead, head to Di Fara, spend the afternoon, order a slice and a square, and taste the cheese.
Di Fara Pizza in Brooklyn, NY. 1424 Avenue J (at East 15th Street). Tel. 718-258-1367. Q train to Avenue J. Map Di Fara. Hours: Wed - Sat: lunch 12 - 4:00 pm, dinner 7 - 9 pm; Sun: lunch 1 - 4 pm, dinner 7 - 8 pm; closed Monday and Tuesday. Check Di Fara’s Facebook page for updated and last minute changes.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Scott Wiener L-O-V-E-S pizza ― and pizza could not have a better advocate. He runs a pizza tour business in New York. I’ve attended the tour and I’ve run into him conducting tours a number of times. It's not just pizza the food he loves, it's also pizza technology and pizza history and pizza culture and really anything pizza. Tell him about a restaurant with a destroyed coal oven buried in the sub-basement and he goes to investigate. Bring up the absence of water buffalo in the United States (from whose milk mozzarella di bufala is made) and he cites economics: cows produce four times as much milk as buffalo.
So it was Scott's event, Slice Out Hunger, to which I eagerly headed this past Wednesday night. Thirty-two New York pizzerias ― including many of the biggest in town ― donated a minimum of five pies each. I delivered five pies from Di Fara and ten from Sam’s Restaurant. But Jim Lahey’s Co. was there; Kesté and Don Antonio both represented (with owher Roberto Caporuscio himself serving slices); Arturo’s, Lombardi’s, Joe’s, and other classics ― plus some places I haven’t yet tried, like Cowboy Pizza and Farinella.
The money raised from the event ― $12,903 in total ― was donated to City Harvest, a non-profit that collects exceess food from restaurants and other food businesses and delivers it free of charge to community food programs throughout New York City. Every dollar donated results in the collection and delivery of four pounds of food ― so that's over 50,000 pounds of food for people thanks to Slice out Hunger and the thirty-two pizzerias that participated!
I roved around with my Flip Video camera and documented the love people have for pizza ― love, of course, that is amplified due to the dollar price per slice, the good cause, and Scott Wiener’s vision, passion, and execution. Click top photo to watch the video.
I'll be there next year ― will you?
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Slice Out Hunger is Produced by Scott Wiener of Scott's Pizza Tours.
See Slice Out Hunger's Website for details.
SLIDESHOW: Lombardi's NYC, a place where coal burns.
Lombardi's current coal oven is a block away from (but at least as old as) the original.
Gennaro Lombardi at the original Lombardi's coal-burning oven, c. 1956 (Photo courtesy Gerry Lombardi)
On its surface, a Lombardi's pizza is a simple thing: dough, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil...
...but the flavor imparted by a coal-burning oven offers a culinary glimpse into America's pizza past.
Busy but efficient, Lombardi's is frequented by tourists and locals alike.
The place must do a ton of delivery business - they'll bring pizza to most of Manhattan below 14th Street.
John Brescio: Don't question his devotion to pizza.
According to Brescio, Lombardi's goes through about 1,000 pounds of anthracite coal PER DAY!
I love clams, and Lombardi's clam pizza is chock full of 'em.
A finished clam pie.
Lombardi's pepperoni curls a bit and gets good crispy edges. LIKE.
Lombardi’s is widely considered the first pizzeria in the United States. Its success and longevity can largely be attributed to its founder, Neapolitan immigrant Gennaro Lombardi. Regarded as a consummate host and gifted restaurateur, Lombardi created, in the first part of the 20th century, a hub of neighborhood life that evolved into a world famous institution.
In 1956, more than a half-century after the restaurant’s opening, New York Times reporter Herbert Mitgang visited the aging Lombardi and asked him to discuss his phenomenal run. Mitgang wrote that Lombardi “patted the oven and said, ‘this is what made me a man today.’”
The oven he patted bore little resemblance to the compact gas pizza ovens that are ubiquitous in today’s pizzerias. Rather, Mitgang described a coal-burning monster: “A magnificent conglomeration of black-and-white enameled bricks on the outside and terra-cotta bricks on the inside... tons of heat-retaining sand below... seven feet high and twelve feet across and twelve feet deep.” In spite of his success in the restaurant business, Gennaro Lombardi considered himself a baker at heart, tied to his most important tool — the massive coal-burning baker’s oven.
Gas ovens democratized pizza making. They take little training to use. Just turn them on and watch the thermostat. They’re smaller, less expensive, and gas burns cleaner. So why coal? Some claim that pizza from coal ovens tastes better, while others — including pizza guys I know— defend their gas ovens, boasting that their pizza tastes just as good. While I like both, I am awed by the process of making pizza in a magical old way.
By 4 am, the Lombardi’s oven has cooled enough from the day before to be cleaned out and relit. The cleanup crew empties the remaining pile of ash into an iron pail and mops up the oven floor. They must use caution when removing the ash because stray bits of glowing hot coal sometimes remain hidden in the pile and, according to Lombardi’s grandson, Gerry Lombardi — who has burned his legs many times — can explode, causing hot particles to scatter beyond the pail. “But that’s part of the business,” he says.
Starting the oven anew is like building a campfire or lighting a grill. On the bottom the oven man first lays rolled up newspaper, then several sticks of kindling, and on top, a shovel or two of coal. He lights the newspaper and within minutes, the kindling catches. Next, he uses a bellows to blow air onto the fire and he opens the flue to create an updraft. Once the coals have caught, he flattens them out and adds another shovelful to two of the corners, so that the fire can grow. It is fed throughout the day, approximately every hour, in order to maintain a temperature of 800-900°.
But the steps required to start the fire and maintain a steady temperature vary. “I gotta tell you, all these ovens are crazy,” Gerry says. “Whatever the temperature is outside, it affects the oven inside. If you get a bad batch of coal, if the fire gets too low, if the fire gets too high, if the ashes build up too high — it’s very difficult to find the correct balance.
“When you work that oven and you put out dozens of pies a day, you control the fire. You got it hot, you got it cold, you got it hot. And you shovel — not a full shovel but a quarter of a shovel, a half a shovel. And then at the same time you work the chimney, where you let 25% of the air go up instead of 50% or 100%, if it gets too hot. Or sometimes you close it down completely to get the fire to choke to death — and then you’ve got smoke in the dining room!
“It’s a sense of accomplishment. You feel really machismo. You feel like, I’m a guy digging ditches in the street. I dug that trench. I put in that pipe. I installed that. I broke my back on this and I’m gonna sleep good tonight. I know how to work the oven. Nobody’s gonna take this job from me. I can call myself a professional.”
A coal oven also takes a physical toll on its master. Gerry’s father and grandfather singed their eyebrows and went bald very young from having leaned far into the oven too many times; they burned their hands and arms while reaching in to gauge the temperature; and Gerry’s father had a burn scar on his neck from an errant piece of hot coal.
But something about cooking pizza this way has inspired people to pass the coal tradition along to their children and grandchildren.
“My grandfather would take the kids back to the oven, and my uncle or my father would toss the pie up in the air. Then we’d pick up a kid and he would look in and see the fire. And we’d say, okay, reach in [below] and take a piece of coal. They’d take a piece and we’d wrap it up and put it in a bag and they brought it home.
Years and years later, doctors and lawyers and schoolteachers came in and told the story about when they were kids and how my grandfather and my father and my uncle did that for them. They said, ‘I brought the coal to school and did a book report on coal!’”
With Gerry’s recipes and guidance John Brescio has run Lombardi’s with the same passion for pizza as the Lombardi family did for so many decades. The pies show it. Be sure to check out their hundred year old oven and watch the stickman slide in a new pie, peek inside, move it and spin it around, hold it toward and away from the fire, and — after 3½ minutes — take it out bubbling and done.
Notes:
1. A huge thanks to Chris Artis for the amazing edits and guidance with this piece.
2. The captions in the photo slideshow (at top) allude to Lombardi's rich history and its change of location. Aside from the the 1956 NY Times article by Herbert Mitgang (linked above and here), a 1978 article by Francis X. Clines discussed Lombardi's within the context of Italian's exodus from Little Italy. It's a great read. Here it is. Finally, I must sneak this in: a scan from a Lombardi's postcard, c. 1950s (look below). (Other historic photos from Lombardi's are in "The Freedom of Pizza," a piece I posted to Pizzacentric on March 6, 2012.)
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LOMBARDI’S ESSENTIALS:
Who: Owners John Brescio and Gerry Lombardi. It’s a large restaurant with several dozen employees.
What’s there: Thin crust round coal oven pizza; no slices. The standout toppings are sautéed garlic spinach and coal oven roasted red peppers; the pepperoni’s edges get crispy and add extra crunch to a folded slice. Specialty items are white pizza, calzones, and an excellent clam pie made with olive oil, garlic, black pepper, and steamed and chopped Connecticut top neck clams. There is a small selection of salads and appetizers.
Where: 32 Spring Street, at the corner of Mott Street, in Manhattan’s Little Italy. 212-941-7994. Number 6 train to Spring Street. Also nearby are N or R train to Prince Street; B, D, F, or M to Broadway-Lafayette; and J or Z train to Bowery. Lombardi’s also delivers to nearly all of Manhattan below 14th Street. (Here’s a trick for heating up cold delivery pizza: ask the pizzeria to not cut your pie. Preheat your home oven and a round pan — with mesh grating, if possible — to 500°. When the pizza arrives cook it for one minute, then slice and serve.)
Why go: Lombardi’s was the first official pizzeria business in the US. It has a long, storied history and has been in two locations with a late-‘80s-to-early-’90s gap. The pizza is Gennaro’s original recipe and the oven — first installed by the Parisi Bakery — is over a century old. Lombardi’s is busy, but customers are welcome to observe the activity around the oven.
How: The oven can accommodate 17 large pies, but because they cook so quickly and the process is so labor intensive, ten is the most they make at a time. A pizza man (aka the “stickman”) uses a long wooden stick (aka the “stick”) with a wood or metal peel on the end to move pizzas around, in and out of the oven.
Quote 1: “It’s like a girl, this oven. You know what I mean? You gotta know exactly where to touch it, put the pie, and everything” -- John Brescio, one of the owners of Lombardi’s.
Quote 2: "[In the early days] everybody was making pizza. Every bread bakery made a pizza. But it was a junk food--they used to put it out cold on the counter with the stale bread.” -- Gerry Lombardi, the grandson of Gennaro Lombardi, who founded Lombardi's in 1905.
411: Open 7 days/week. 11:30 - 11 (Monday-Thursday), 11:30 - Midnight (Friday-Saturday).
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Ah, the rest stop. Found along an off-ramp that doesn’t exit the highway, it's a place where people refuel their vehicles and themselves and where they eliminate solid and liquid waste from their bodies — and from their pets. When it comes to eating along a toll road, there isn't much choice: just the rest stop. When my family hits the road — often with our car filled to the brim — there's no time to pack a lunch, so we either time the drive to occur between meals or we suck it up and go to one of these places.
Here's the problem: the food at a rest stop can leave a person feeling downright ill. In fact, one’s compulsion to call rest stop food food depends upon one’s personal definition of the word. On Friday, I had a roast beef sandwich and curly fries at Roy Rogers at the Walt Whitman stop of the New Jersey Turnpike. These items were not food.
SLIDESHOW: Hungry in NJ? Trapped on the Turnpike? Let's go here!
Sugary temptations for the kids. Good luck parents! (Who profits from this?)
At the Woodrow Wilson rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike.
Unlike Burger King and others, Roy Rogers offers a Fixin's Bar - an assortment of self-serve condiments.
3-piece chicken and biscuit (bot. left): 1375 calories, 91 g of fat, 2660 mg sodium (wow).
Though no roast beef sandwiches were on display, an employee prepared one for me in less than a minute. How old are these sandwiches?
Holster Fries (at right): 546 calories, 29 g of fat.
Roy Roger's roast beef sandwich (surrounded by items from the Fixin's Bar): 368 calories, 822 mg sodium.
Why are our food options during road travel limited to industrial products? Why does the State of New Jersey award restaurant contracts only to companies that serve unhealthy, unnatural things? Peek behind the counter and behold workers scraping greasy griddles with sharp spatulas, pulling drippy baskets out of deep fryers, and utilizing aluminum-, azodicarbonamide-, and HFCS-laden bread rolls. Ick! Sure, traveling people want food fast,but I know better options exist — options that would produce wholesome foods dished out to customers in a cafeteria-style environment. Been to Ikea lately?
I call for revolution. I challenge the Governor of New Jersey or the heffe of the NJ Turnpike Authority or whoever it is to alter the paradigm and, somewhere around Exit 7 — smack in the middle of the New Jersey Turnpike roadway — 86 one factory food spot and replace it with some folks who make real food. Test the market with something good and see if the people will come. I think they will. Who knows: people may even begin to look forward to the drive — all because they can’t wait to have an excellent roast chicken and potatoes with thyme and rosemary on the Turnpike.
Imagine what popularity would befall Woodrow Wilson or Richard Stockton if, rather than racks of foil paper-wrapped old sandwiches made with patties of questionable provenance, travelers could choose from fresh roasted meats, burgers cooked to order, and actual vegetables that are not fried. The people serving these foods could be the same people who have made them — from scratch! The business could use ingredients raised and grown on nearby farmland -- thus boosting local economies with new, dependable demand for their quality goods.
Imagine the applause from New York Times food writer Mark Bittman and the hoards of people who would choose this place instead of Roy Rogers, Burger King, and Nathan’s. Better still, imagine the improved feeling in your gut as you drive away, having consumed a healthy chemical-free road lunch. Sitting in the car — currently made uncomfortable due to the french fries and cinnamon buns and chickeny things — for another hour or two would feel less bad. Feel better just thinking about it? Me too. Revolution, I say.
It could be a place where — like in the cafeterias of yore — customers can choose from fruits on ice, ceramic plates with fat wedges of homemade cakes and merangues and tarts, self-service breads and soups and salads, fresh pizzas made with both unbleached wheat and sprouted-wheat quinoa doughs. Of course, the list could go on.
Impossible? I think not, because they do it in France. I’d seen it several years ago just west of Montpelier. I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I was floored by the presence of fruit! So this summer, during a drive on the A11 from the north coast of Brittany to Paris, I stopped at a random rest stop just east of Chartres. My friend Laurent had urged me to stop in Chartres to see the church — “It’s a masterpiece,” he said — but I wanted rest stop food on the French toll road.
SLIDESHOW: Rest stop gas station, France
Self-service rolls, not wrapped in plastic!
Traveling with family? Grab a triple tray cart or a rolling highchair and head over to today's selection.
Baked ham carved to order.
Roast chicken, choice of three gravies!
Rice and sausage.
Fruit, butter, cheese, yogurt.
Desserts on display.
My daughter's excellent cheeseburger, cooked from scratch. It took seven minutes.
My plate of chicken and vegetables. $10.
The chocolate cake. Similar to one I make, but not quite is good lol.
Coffee and beverage station.
I had a quarter roast chicken with sauteed spinach, a roasted tomato, and a steamed mixture of carrots, broccoli and cauliflower. The chicken, of course, was breasty compared to ours; the tomato was sweet and juicy; and the mixed vegetables were salted just right. $10. You would spend more than that for less (and worse) food at a road stop in the US. It can work here.
To take a look at some of the items offered along the toll road in France, please rollover the above photo and click through the slideshow. And do consider this: don’t we deserve better in the USA?
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I visited l'Arche Cafeteria at the Aire de Chartres-Bois near Gasville-Oisème.
For general information about food options within the French highway system, visit the Motorway Services website.
My favorite cultural homage to the New Jersey Turnpike is the song Big Road by the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion.
When we exited Autostrade A1 onto E45 on our way to Pizzeria Salvo in Naples the plan was to rely upon Google’s map turn details (sans cellular connection) because in Naples there are no street signs. I wondered how would we know when Via delle Repubbliche Marinare becomes Via Provinciale Botteghelle di Portici? (That was the point at which the directions said to drive five hundred meters and then turn left.) When we faced a straight road with low buildings, few trees, and litter scattered about, we saw a single car crawling forward inch-by-inch. Its driver ― with an arm extended out the window, has hand holding a leash ― was "walking" the dog.
My friends in Rome have always refused to go to Naples with me despite its being less than ninety minutes away and, because I had read or received plenty of warnings like “Stay away from Naples,” “Don’t drive in Naples,” and “You should read Gomorrah,” I had yet to visit.
I know. A person with my passion for pizza and impetus for food experiences should have hopped aboard a cheap train years ago to stop in at the meccas Antica Pizzeria Port’Alba and Pizzeria Brandi for what I am sure are heavenly pizza experiences. But when in Italy I’ve always been happy with pizza in Rome and everywhere else I’ve gone and ― in the US at least ― I've often found Naples-style pizza to be soggy in the center.
This summer, since I would be traveling with my family and our friends and their family, and since these friends wanted to go to Naples because the husband’s ancestors had emigrated to the United States from Casalnuovo di Napoli and he wanted to see it, it was finally time to try pizza in Naples.
I called Scott Wiener. He’s a pizza expert who owns a pizza tour business in New York. He’s been to Naples and I figured he’d have good advice. He said I should go to Pizzeria Salvo, an old and well-respected place in Naples’ southern neighborhood of San Giorgio a Cremano.
“You think that’ll be good enough?” I asked him. “Or should I brave the roads and head to the harbor, find a parking lot, and eat at one of the famous places?”
“No,” he said. “First off, if you have a car and try to go to the center of town, there are no parking lots. When you pull up to the restaurant, a guy will come up to you and offer to take your keys and take care of the car while you eat.”
“Does he work for the restaurant?” I asked.
“No. But anyway,” he added, “Pizzeria Salvo is really good.”
That settled it. I wasn’t about to drive my family and lead my friends, all of us in rental cars with who-knows-what insurance, into the center of Naples in order to hand the keys over to a sketchy car parker guy, all so that I could taste one pizza over another.
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To discuss Naples-style pizza one must consider its crust, which I find both cursed and blessed at the same time ― mainly due to the wet factor. Don’t get me wrong ― I like it. But in nearly every experience I’ve had with this kind of pizza (most of them in New York City), I’ve needed fork and knife.
A good Naples crust ― at least around its puffy perimeter ― offers all the complexity, salt, and chew of good baker’s bread; but the center ― thin because this is the style, and soft due to a quick high-temperature cook time ― doesn’t merely sag, it falls.
At Salvo, pizzas measure about fourteen inches in diameter and come in several combinations. I wanted to compare the flavor and effects of mozzarella di bufala with those of fior di latte (fresh cow’s milk mozzarella), so I tried two different pies. The biggest and most general finding of my test confirmed something I already knew: variance of items on a dough affects strength-of-crust. While both pizzas had the same crust the one called Margherita del Vesuvio (a “white” pizza with grape tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala, extra virgin olive oil, and basil ― 4 Euros) provided superior sturdiness ―I believe because it had no sauce. You could pick it up!
The other ― a standard fior di latte Margherita (7,50 Euros) ― turned soggy in the middle within a minute or two.
(Scroll from this photo of the fior di latte margherita to see the sturdier but blobbier Margherita del Vesuvio.)
On the menu, Salvo provides sourcing information for all of its ingredients. The grape tomatoes on the Vesuviopizza were canned Pomodorini del Piennolo del Vesuvio DOP di Casa Barone; the mozzarella di bufala was from the Caseificio Golino & Bellopede; and the olive oil was from Villa Dora. The pomodorini were juicy and sweet and rendered sauce unnecessary.
Sadly, the mozzarella di bufala was thick and chewy; Salvo’s blobby application of it made me wish for less. It also made me appreciate the Roman pizza al taglio method for cheese: rather than cooking mozzarella di bufalathey add it to baked pies in the form of small room temperature hand-pulled strands.
Meanwhile, though Salvo’s fior di latte Margherita did suffer from soggy interior, its cheese more than made up for the downside. It was extraordinary: creamy and rich, just the right amount of salt, and not at all blobby. The sauce was sweet but in a non-sugared way and, as with the Vesuvio, the pedigree of all of its ingredients is listed in detail on the menu. Here's Salvo’s menu.
When I asked the owner’s son, whose name I did not find out, which cheese is the true pizza mozzarella, he said fior di latte is more traditional. Then he elaborated on Salvo’s philosophy: “For us, every pizza is a dish. We use only ingredients from Campania. We don’t want products from industry. Even the beer we have is artisanal beer.”
(The view from Pizzeria Salvo in Naples.)
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We got lost after lunch. The directions said, “Head southeast on Via S. Cristoforo toward Via Giovanni Farina,” but we didn’t know which street was Via S. Cristoforo and I was feeling too stubborn to stop and ask someone for directions. So I guessed. Maybe, I thought to myself, we would succeed in finding our way out as we had when found our way in.
At step three, we turned behind another car onto a road and then drove straight for about a mile or two. The pavement became more choppy, the road’s width narrowed some, it sloped upward, curved a few times, and became even narrower. It started to seem as if we were going nowhere fast and that the road might soon dead end. We also observed increasing quantities of garbage in piles all around us. Finally, I acknowledged to my wife ― she’d been saying this since we first turned onto the road ― that we were going the wrong way and that we were climbing the live volcano, Mount Vesuvius. I turned us around.
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Lesson One: If I could go back to Salvo I would attempt to finagle a fior di latte pie with no sauce, just cherry tomatoes. I like my pizza sturdy.
Lesson Two: When driving around Naples (and throughout much of Southern Italy, for that matter), get GPS!
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Pizzaeria Salvo in Naples, Italy. Open Monday - Saturday 12:30 pm - 3 pm and 7 pm - Midnight. (Closed Sunday). Pizzeria Salvo website. Map Pizzeria Salvo.
Over the course of several visits and with Alexia as my guide, I have learned how to do coffee in Rome. I write this on the morning of the day I will head to Italy ― and I don’t know what I’ll do about coffee: I think it has begun to disagree with my inner workings.
But I have yet to celebrate Italian coffee on Pizzacentric and ― seeing as it’s summer in New York and Rome ― my thoughts have turned to granita, a coffee-, almond-, pistachio-, or fruit-flavored frozen drink Sicilians often have for breakfast with a brioche roll. I did not think decent granita exists in New York, but it does at Grom, a chain of Italian gelato stores that have opened here and elsewhere around the world. More on Grom below.
Imagine you are in Rome and already amped up on caffeine. You began the day, as is proper, with a cappuccino ― or a doppio cappuccino ― and cornetto. Then while touristing around you stopped in at a few different bars for espresso. Thus, you have had more coffee than you should have had, but in Rome perfect cups announce their presence through the doors of bars all over: the clinking of porcelain on porcelain and the hum of compressors forcing hot water through filter and ground coffee into little cups, the motorized crunching of beans, the megaphoned whisper of steam as it explodes milk against the inside walls of metal pitchers, and the chit-chatting Italians who hold these drinks for less than a minute before downing their contents in one or two quick tips.
(Coffee as tasty as good coffee in Rome costs more in New York. At Café Pedlar, a good place up the street from my apartment in Brooklyn, an espresso is $2.50. In Rome, good espresso ― which is commonplace ― costs about € 0.70, or roughly US $0.90.)
During my first visit to Rome in 1996, Alexia brought me to Caffé Tazza d’Oro, an espresso bar near the Pantheon, where I tried granita for the first time. Imagine a plastic cup filled with thousands of square specks of coffee-ice topped with a heap of panna, a thick whipped cream. The result, when mixed, is a sticky-yet-granular, icy, more-bitter-than-sweet afternoon pick-me-up-again best consumed with a spoon.
When I walk out of Tazza d’Oro and into the hot sunshine, brain aloft and body abuzz, the heat does not bug me in quite the way it seems to bug so many of the tourists who look fatigued as they stand without shade next to flag-bearing guides who tell them things about ancient Rome: they listen, they mop molto sweat off of their brows, and then they walk off toward the next point of interest ― perhaps Piazza Navona. I feel superior because I know about granita and because I’m dangerously wired.
Last April, when I described Tazzo d’Oro’s granita to Nick ― the man known to Pizzacentric readers as the Sicilian Critic ― I sensed disdain. He said, “This is not granita. This is grattachecca ― ice mashed into little pieces and mixed with a syrup of processed flavors.” Because he is from Sicily, the birthplace of granita ― and because he is the Sicilian Critic ― he would not try it.
When we went to his hometown I had a granita at Bar Castello, an espresso bar near his parents’ house. At Nick’s urging I had almond, not coffee: it’s made from actual ground almonds, not manufactured flavorings. (I had an espresso to go with it.)
This granita was smoother in texture than Tazzo d’Oro’sand more naturally almond than anything almond I’ve ever had (excluding almonds, of course). Even though the granita was frozen and wet I could still sense the nut-meat within. I ate it with brioche ― what a great combination!
(I did not try Castello’s coffee granita and so do not know how it would compare to Tazzo d’Oro’s. I have, however, discovered a post by a person named “Jill,” who along with “John,” has a blog called “Vegan Backpacker.” Her post about granita substantiates Nick’s claim that for the best granita, you have to go to Sicily. Check it out her yummy photos!)
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Anyone in New York (or Malibu, Osaka, Paris, Tokyo ― or any of several Italian cities) can find decent granita at Grom, an chain of Italian gelaterias with roots in Turin.
Grom’s almond granita tastes natural like the one I had in Sicily. The only difference is that the almonds are ground a little coarser than they were in my Sicilian granita. I also tried Grom’s coffee granita. Its flavor is good ― a little bitter and not too sweet ― but a little too wet. If you have granita at Grom ― which is not a cheap place ― be sure to splurge extra on panna: it’s a luscious addition.
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Map Tazzo d'Oro.
Map Bar Castello.
Grom's website.
SLIDESHOW: Giovanni Lanzo, pizzaman for the people.
Luigi's replaced this menu sign a couple years ago but has not raised prices.
There's a lot of magic at Luigi's, but food-wise, it begins with the dough.
Luigi's Supreme pie: sopressatta, sausage, green peppers, minced garlic, and homemade green herb olive oil.
Visit Luigi's in late summer and you may score a slice topped with tomatoes grown by Luigi himself.
Photos are from 2010.
“I knew you were coming,” Giovanni said as I entered Luigi’s, “I knew it.” “How?” I asked. “Because,” he reminded me, “you wrote on Facebook that you were going to Time Warner Cable.” I had exchanged my cable box down the road, and Giovanni, with his laptop set up on one of his tables — never missing a beat — knew I couldn’t resist his pizza.
This small shop on a treeless, cheerless stretch of Fifth Avenue in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, not far from the Greenwood Cemetery, is more than a pizzeria: it is a social parlor where co-owner Giovanni Lanzo holds court with employees and customers all day and evening. Because he is a born storyteller, you may find yourself sticking around for longer than planned. I arrive with extra quarters for the meter — just in case.
He often talks about his father, the restaurant’s namesake, who retired in 2000. Topics include Luigi’s work ethic, his love for his customers, his no-nonsense approach to business, and his devotion to excellent ingredients.
“You know, it’s amazing, so amazing how my father is. He’s old-fashioned — that’s it. He never did anything wrong. He liked coming to his pizzeria. He came from Italy, so he didn’t have a million friends. His friends were the people that came into the store.”
In 1998 Luigi’s was used as a location in the feature film, “Big Daddy,” starring Adam Sandler.
“When they came to film,” recalls Giovanni, “the producer was shocked because my father told him that he wasn’t going to close the store. They had requested the store, they wanted to shoot it here, and we had worked out a figure. The director said, ‘Okay, you’re gonna close between 5 and 9.’ My father said, ‘Close? It’s Friday! My customers are coming here every day for 30 years. I’m not gonna close for you. I can’t. I don’t care if you give me $10,000 for one day. My customers are more important to me.’”
Giovanni pauses and smiles, then adds, “And that’s a day I learned something from my father. I said, Wow, all my college, all my years in school never taught me this. My father realized that his customers are what made him — not somebody who comes here once for ten grand. And so the movie people came, and we served our customers through the hallway.
“There’s one woman around the corner, Miss McLaughlin. She loves telling the story about how she saw someone from the movie set tell a customer that they couldn’t come in. My father overheard this and stopped the whole scene they were filming to bake her a pie and two calzones. She’s been getting that same order for over 30 years!
“It’s why I like coming here. It’s family here. I was born around the corner, so, I’m home. People around me know me since I’m born. They watched me grow up. I’m watching their kids grow up. It’s a neighborhood. It’s a neighborhood store.”
There are many stories, but Giovanni’s conversations usually include talk about pizza. “Growing up, I knew that pizza was something for the poor people, something for people to enjoy, you know, a fast meal, but good and healthy — and it wasn’t supposed to be expensive. You walk into these places now, it’s ridiculous, the prices are just too high. It’s how you make pizza. If you make it with your heart it’s going to come out good. All the gimmicks, like brick oven. There’s bricks in these ovens too,” he says, pointing to his pair of 1972 Baker’s Pride gas ovens. “It’s all about if you love to cook. That’s what pizza’s about: you cook it, you love making it, it comes out great!”
Because this is his parlor, he plays host and introduces customers to each other: “This is my local haircutter, Alberto. He’s the best haircutter you’re ever going to meet — a real haircutter with the old fashioned scissors. He comes from Bensonhurst — Bay Parkway — and now lives in Staten Island. They’ve got great pizza there, but not like this” and, “This is Luciano. He’s a new customer. He just started coming in about eight months ago — he’s like family now. He even wants my old oil so that he can run his diesel Mercedes. He converted it to bio all by himself. He’s got four of them. He hasn’t bought gas in six years.”
All talk (and occasional bragging) aside, Giovanni takes tremendous pride and care with his pizza. He does not bake rack upon rack of advance pizzas like other places. When a slice pie runs out — that’s when he makes another. His crust achieves a perfect duality: when folded, it splits along the bottom, holds together on top, and maintains simultaneous crunch and chew.
I have two favorites: the Supreme and the Grandma. The Supreme, invented by Giovanni together with one of his customers, is a cheese and tomato pie topped with sopressata from a pork store down the street, Italian sausage, green peppers, minced garlic, and a liberal drizzle of homemade green herb olive oil. The sopressata, with its complex spicy flavor, is added only after the pizza is done baking. Its richness balances the green peppers, and all of the toppings are cut small enough so that each bite includes every part.
The Grandma pie, which Giovanni calls “my mother’s pie,” is an entirely different experience but no less compelling. Fresh mozzarella and thick sauce meld with the pliable upper portion of the crust, while its underside is thin and crispy like an Italian cracker.
I asked Giovanni to summarize his feelings about pizza.
“I love pizza. I can eat it every day. I love making it. I love looking at it. Every pie I make I look at. Look at that square right there: the olive oil, the grated cheese — it’s perfect. I could love that all day — all day! Just fill my stomach with it. I just love pizza.”
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LUIGI’S ESSENTIALS
Who: Owner Giovanni Lanzo and his sister, Marissa Lanzo. They have a few employees.
What’s there: Round, Square Sicilian, and Square Grandma; whole pie or by the slice. Specialty pies include the Supreme, Lasagne, and fresh mozzarella. Specialty pies and the Grandma get finished with Giovanni’s homemade green herb olive oil (he calls it “esto” sauce). Available toppings include: pepperoni, meatball, sausage, spinach, peppers, onions, garlic, esto, anchovies, sun dried tomatoes, eggplant, vodka sauce, and fresh mozzarella. All of Luigi's crusts are excellent.
Where: 686 Fifth Avenue (between 20th & 21st Streets) in the Sunset Park neighborhood of Brooklyn (some refer to this location as South Slope or Greenwood Heights, but don’t use those terms with Giovanni because he insists it’s called Sunset Park). Tel. 718-499-3857. R train to Prospect Avenue or 25th Street.
Why go: Go for the pizza and for the dialogue. It’s a true pizza-as-bar experience and while it does a steady business all day long, you usually don’t have to wait long for your food.
How: Luigi’s excellence begins with the dough, which is always made 1-2 days in advance and appears to be wetter than the dough at most typical slice joints. Ask Giovanni about it and though he won’t tell you how it’s made, he will wax on about its redeeming qualities. (Some customers swear that Luigi’s dough is even better on Mondays because it has had an extra day to rise.)
Quote: “A chain is only as good as its weakest link, and Giovanni doesn’t have a weakest link.” (Jeff Plitt, a longtime writer and editor for the New York Zagat Survey, and a regular customer at Luigi’s.)
*411*: 686 Fifth Avenue (between 20th & 21st Streets) in the Sunset Park neighborhood of Brooklyn (some refer to this location as South Slope or Greenwood Heights, but don’t use those terms with Giovanni because he insists it’s called Sunset Park). Tel. 718-499-3857. R train to Prospect Avenue or 25th Street. Map Luigi's. Hours: Mon - Thurs: 11 am - 10 pm; Fri - Sat: 11 am - 12 am; closed Sunday. Luigi's Facebook page.
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This story was edited by partner-in-pizza, Chris Artis.
Back in April, as I worked on an article for Edible Queens about women who make pizza, I began to wonder: how many pizza-making women are there? I had my three for the story ― Lillian Calabrese of Lillian Pizzeria in Forest Hills, Rose and Susan Bagali of John’s Pizza in Elmhurst, and Gianna Cerbone-Teoli of Manducatis Rustica in Long Island City (above photo) ― but how many were out there who I didn’t even know about?
Years ago, when I lived in the East Village I sometimes went to Five Rose’s. I liked theirpizza ― not too cheesy; thin, pliable crust ― and it was often along the way to where I was going. But the main reason I stopped there was that the owner (and primary pizza-making person) was a woman. That was novel. Unlike Stromboli (1st and St. Marks), Nino’s (Avenue A), and even the alt-art-Louisiana pizza shop Two Boots To Go (down near 2nd Street), Five Roses was less hustle bustle, and molto mellow. (Five Rose’s closed in 2008 ― here’s a story from the Vanishing New York Blog.
I cannot recall any other Manhattan places I went to during the ‘90s or ‘00s that crossed gender lines ― and even today within the five boroughs, I know of only a few. And so, as part of my “research” for the story I was writing I picked up a copy of the 2006-07 Queens Yellow Pages and called all of the pizzerias listed under “Restaurants -------> Pizza.”
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Here’s how it went:
“Hello, so-and-so pizzeria, how can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m writing a story for a magazine about women who make pizza and I’m wondering if there are any women who work there who regularly make pizza.”
“Huh?” most of them replied, at which point I tried to clarify the question by substituting the word “ladies” for “women.” That helped.
“Honestly, I never heard about any women making pizza,” said the guy at Luigi’s in Bayside.
“No, sir. It would be hard to find a woman who makes pizza,” said the guy at La Vita Mia in Astoria.
“No, if I had any women working over here my guys wouldn’t do their job,” said the guy at Jack’s (maybe Jack himself) in Bayside.
“No, we don’t. I wish we did,” said the guy at Pizza Classica in Flushing.
“ ... leave it up to a man to think that a woman can’t make pizza,” said the owner of Il Gusto in Ridgewood. "That's not what I think," I replied, a bit defensively.
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But despite the surprise and/or cynicism I garnered from many of the calls, I discovered 19 Queens pizzerias (out of the 205 pizzerias I called) that do have a female pizza-maker. Nearly 10% ― wow!
A few of those 19 shared with me their thoughts on the topic.
Josephine at Josephine’sin Ozone Park: “I don’t make pizza all the time but I can make pizza. It’s hard work. It’s not easy ― [and you’ll get] really huge shoulders and strong arms. I think women are more cautious about the food they serve. A woman has more inclination to feed the family and keep the household going so whatever she does [it] is more with love and [it tastes] better.
Rosa at Alfie’sin Richmond Hill: “It’s a family business. For me, that’s how I got into it. It used to be a man’s job but I was bred into it. This business ― it’s in my blood. And I love it. It makes people happy ― especially our old-school customers. If you make something with love, it comes out much better.” “The work itself [is not appealing]. You need strength. It’s more of a manual kind of work. You need power to put into the dough. Women have small fingers [compared to men]. But it’s a stereotype that it’s a man’s job.”
Sara at Martiniello’s in Maspeth: “I like cooking but I don’t really like making pizza ― in particular, stretching the dough. It’s a lot of hours (15-16/day) and [you need] a lot of stamina.”
Lume at Neron’s in Queens Village: “It’s a hard job. You have to have the touch and a love to make pizza. Ladies are better [at it] than men but people get surprised to see a woman making pizza.”
Sandro at M&G in Whitestone: “My wife Theresa makes pizza every day. It’s in her blood: her father owned a pizzeria and she taught me how to make pizza. We both have a different style.”
Owner at Woodside Pizza in Woodside: “I have an employee who’s been here 2½ years. Her pizzas are exactly the same as those made by men. She opens a good pie.”
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Info on the three pizzerias featured in Edible Queens story:
John's Pizza in Elmhurst. Open Tues - Sun 12 pm - 10 pm (Closed Monday). Map John's. Rose and Susan Bagali make all of the pizzas.
Lillian Pizzeria in Forest Hills. Open Tues - Thurs & Sat - Sun 11 am - 9 pm, Fri 11 am - 9:30 pm (Closed Monday). Map Lillian's. Lillian makes the salad pizza.
Manducatis Rustica in Long Island City. Open Tues - Fri 10 am - 10 pm, Sat 1 pm - 10:30 pm, Sun 1 pm - 8:30 pm (Closed Monday). Map Manducatis Rustica. A restaurant with pizza and more on the menu. Gianna spends most of her time in the kitchen and, along with her employees, does make pizza.
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The Yellow Pages book I used is outdated and thus, this list is incomplete. Contact me with info on others and I'll add them:
Alfie's Pizza in Richmond Hill. 86-08 117th Street. (718) 849-8701
Atana Pizza Corp in Long Island City. 21-07 Broadway. (718) 545-5304
Friend's Too Pizzeria in Ozone Park. 93-12 Liberty Avenue. (718) 843-1233
Il Gusto in Ridgewood. 62-98 Ridgewood Avenue. (718) 418-1112
Josephine's Pizza in Ozone Park. 132-04 Cross Bay Boulevard. (718) 641-2775
M&G Pizza in Clearview. 19-05 Utopia Parkway. (718) 352-6140
Martiniello's Pizzeria in Jackson Heights. 95-06 Roosevelt Avenue. (718) 779-4733
Neron's Pizza and Restaurant in Queens Village. 215-32 Hillside Avenue. (718) 776-6056
Pizza Bella in Elmhurst. 81-30 Broadway. (718) 507-1009
Romano Famous Pizza in Astoria. 32-21 Broadway. (718) 626-5292
Steve's' Pizza Place in Middle Village. 82-18 Eliot Avenue. (718) 899-4751
Tommy's Pizza in Rockaway Beach. 915 Cross Bay Boulevard. (718) 945-6054
Tommy's Pizza in South Richmond Hill. 93-12 Liberty Avenue. (718) 835-4408
Venice Pizza in Flushing. 41-94 Bowne Street. (718) 537-0104
Victoria's Pizzeria Restaurante in Corona. 111-17 Roosevelt Avenue. (718) 803-8408
Vito's Restaurant & Pizzeria in Bayside. 78-37 Springfield Boulevard. (718) 465-3855
Woodside Pizza & Catering in Woodslide. 44-06 60th Street. (718) 533-8888
My first job as a photographer was for the Courier Newspapers in Brooklyn. I covered community meetings, block parties, and press events. I made no money and it was not sustainable — they paid $7 per photo (!) and did not reimburse expenses — but I loved doing it because my assignments involved photographing people in places all around the vast borough of Brooklyn.
I photographed in Canarsie, Sheepshead Bay, Bensonhurst, Flatlands, Flatbush, Midwood, Marine Park — and yes, the brownstone neighborhoods of Park Slope, Carroll Gardens, and Brooklyn Heights — but also in Dyker Heights, Bedford Stuyvesant, Bath Beach, and Bay Ridge. All were distinct neighborhoods, each had its own local politicians whose spiels I heard plenty of times — and each had its own best pizzerias, many of with which I became familiar.
Last Saturday I returned for the first time in a while to Nino’s in Bay Ridge. The visit was fruitful due not only to the several slices of pizza I ate but also because State Senator Marty Golden — an affable Republican from Bay Ridge who I had photographed plenty of times for Courier Papers (and then later for the NY Daily News) —came in while I was there. Somehow, his presence added validation to what I already knew to be true: Nino's makes good pizza. We chatted for a minute. He told me Nino's is one of several stops along his regular Saturday route: “Pizza at Nino’s, then I'll have an espresso next door, and I'm doing laundry across the street.” (I asked him why a person of his stature was using a laundromat and — like a pro — he evaded the question.) (Rollover the above photo of the scene outside of Nino's for a 2001 photo I made for the Courier. Senator Golden is second from right.)
I should mention that Senator Golden had a square of Nino’s grandma pizza. At Nino’s, it’s called "Gran Mama" and it is far thinner than grandma pies at other pizzerias.
For a full description of Nino’s Gran Mama and other pies I tried last weekend, visit the sister review I’ve posted onto slice.seriouseats.com.
(Above photo shows one of Nino’s owners, Benny Cerva, holding a Gran Mama pie fresh from the oven.)
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Nino's Pizza is open 10 am - 11 pm, 7 days/week. Map Nino's Pizza.
It was lunchtime, I was hungry, and I needed cash. On the way to my bank I walked past the local fish store and asked the owner to clean a couple of soft shell crabs for me. I picked them up on the way home and brought them into the kitchen. Moments after immersing them into a bowl of milk for plumping, a couple of legs on one of them seemed to move. I thought to myself, “Oh, that’s interesting. So it was crimped up and now it’s floating out because of the liquid. It’s not alive, is it?”
Then those little legs moved back to where they had been. Back and forth a couple of times.
In an instant I was back in my Suffolk Street apartment ― summer of 1990 ― where I had thrown my first of several biennial crab feasts. That year, we went through two bushels of crabs in one night. The morning after, I discovered a single live crab on the floor outside the kitchen and for one moment I wondered what to do. Should I should cook it? (“No,” said my roommate Chris, who ― though hung over ― had no trouble channeling a voice of reason.) Should we set it free in the East River? (Humane as this sounded, we concluded it could not survive in the East River.) Should we throw it out in the garbage? That’s what we did. (To this day I lament its loss because it was, alas, a crab gone to waste.)
Yesterday, with the pressure of an unexpected live crab again upon me, I ran to get my video camera. “If this is the death of a crab,” I thought to myself, “I might as well document it.”
But when I returned to the kitchen only seconds later the crab was kaput. I touched its leg: no movement.
It shouldn’t have survived its eyes getting cut off and whatever else happens when one asks a fishmonger to clean a crab. But for whatever reason the powers above had granted this creature a few added minutes of useless reprieve. One could say the final cause of death was DROWNED BY MILK. (I hope it felt no pain but I don’t want to know ― I like crabs too much.)
I waited 25 minutes for the crabs to plump, and then I sautéed them in olive oil with salt and pepper.
To sauté soft shell crabs, start with the top side down and cook 3-4 minutes per side over medium heat. This way they can develop a good crunch and bright red sheen. (Roll over top photo for a frying pan view of the topsides.) I usually dredge soft shells in flour and cook them in butter, but yesterday I followed the advice from Mark Bittman's recent article and made them sans flour (I used olive oil instead of butter).
(Bittman's article offers a range of cooking options but does not suggest a milk bath. Read it here.)
For my lunch, I sandwiched the two crabs in a twelve-inch segment of day-old toasted baguette along with Trader Joe’s “Aioli Garlic Mustard Sauce,” chopped cilantro and scallion from the fridge, and a squeeze of lemon. Soft shell crabs work with any flavors. Use the foods you have. That said, my favorite soft shell crab sandwich has slices of late-summer tomato and sweet onion, lemon juice, and a thin spread of tartar sauce.
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Many fish stores and markets sell soft shell crabs. I went to Carroll Gardens Fish Market, in Brooklyn, NY. The price can vary, but in early May 2012, I paid $6.66 for two crabs (based on three for $10).
Carroll Gardens Fish Market is open Monday - Friday 9 am - 7:30 pm; Saturday 9 am - 12 pm; closed Sunday. Map Carroll Gardens Fish Market.
SLIDESHOW: Big Slice at Broadway/110th St., NYC
Pizzamen at Koronet combine solid gripping and body girth to maneuver pies into the oven.
Five years after opening in 1981, Koronet upped the diameter of its pies from 26" to 32".
At $3.75 per slice, it's a meal option as cheap as any around.
Extra cheese on a Koronet slice? Not recommended.
Humbled but determined.
As an undergraduate at NYU I rotated through many good pizza options in the Village, but whenever friends at Columbia invited me to their parties uptown, my thoughts turned to that huge Koronet slice I knew I would have at the end of the night.
Koronet doesn’t need to be good. Drunk people ― and those seeking value ― will happily spend $3.75 for this meal-size conglomeration of dough, sauce, and cheese. (One time I ate two, but don’t be impressed. My friend R., a cyclist who consumed massive amounts of carbs, could eat three. And (I’m not sure I believe this) when I visited Koronet back in December, the on-duty pizzaman told me he’s seen someone eat six at a time. Just not possible.)
It so happens that Koronet transcends schtick and serves a formidable triangle of classic New York pie (though I wish it they would cook it a minute or two longer). The cheese alone weighs about a quarter-pound per slice, but spread out across such massive real estate it neither overwhelms nor becomes rubbery. The sauce, spiked with oregano and black pepper, asserts itself (and the owners' Greek origins) through every bite. The crunchy and chewy crust folds well despite its size ― but do use two hands.
Over the years, I’ve seen many pizzerias decline in quality or close down. I recently visited one old favorite on University Place and had to throw away my slice: the crust was mush and it tasted of gas oven. I nearly cried. But against many odds, Koronet has remained consistent through the years.
I asked co-owner Peter Manikis to share his philosophy on Koronet’s longevity. His answer: “It always stays the same. We haven’t changed or dropped the quality.” Cliché words from many a restauranteur, but in the case of Koronet it's a boast that rings true.
So, message of the day to good pizzerias: please don’t change the formula ― we like things as they are.
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Map Koronet. Koronet is open Sunday - Wednesday 10 am - 2 am; Thursday - Saturday 10 am - 4 am. Tel. 212-222-1566.
We have many names for those elongated sandwiches stuffed with meats, vegetables, and cheese — you know the ones.
I believe the plural of hero — the sandwich hero, I mean — is heros. No e. I'd bet most refer to this sandwich as a sub, which is short for submarine. The name derives from its shape.
Are hoagies and grinders both from Philadelphia? I believe a grinder is a cooked hoagie, but I assume the cheesesteak is Philly's best-known submersible.
The contents of a po' boy may be strictly defined, but its shape also approximates that of a sub.
Many Italian delis in NYC make a fried calamari hero but I've never had one. More often than not, I order chick parm on a roll. A hero is pretty big. I once tried shrimp on a hero, but I'm not into the idea of drowning juicy seafood in a mini-loaf of bread.
Similar broadness exists for the word pizza in Italian. We define pizza as a flat round dough with tomato sauce and cheese on top. Put aside wood versus gas versus coal, thick versus thin, pan versus no pan, and plate-size-fancy versus large-size-sharable — and you have a word.
Pizza ripiene translates to "filled pizza." It appears in many iterations across Italy — including in the format of a calzone. In towns along the slopes of Mount Etna (such as Viagrande, where I visited Gran Caffè Urna), pizza siciliana is a fried calzone filled with tuma cheese (oozy and buttery, made from cow's milk, difficult to find in the US) and one or two anchovies (photo below shows the pizza siciliana at Urna).
A panzerotti, by the way, is a little five-bite jobby of a pizza; and pizza farcita is like pizza ripiene but closed around the perimeter.
Schiacciata is a word I just learned. It means "flat bread baked with non-tomato stuff on top" and can be synonymous with focaccia — or a pizza without tomato sauce. Imagine if schiacciata had evolved as the primary word to describe pizza. To what degree would Americans have embraced it?
Many Americans (or at least New Yorkers) refer to pizza as a "pie," but a pizza rustica — which translates to "rustic pizza" — resembles pie more than pizza. Italians eat pizza rustica when they get together with family or friends (in other words, just about any time), while Italian bakeries and pastry shops in the US sell it only around Christmas and Easter.
Home cooks make their pizze rustiche in countless ways, but the crust should be pastry, not bread. My friend Laura grew up in Bologna eating her grandmother's homemade rendition (it had no meat, only cheese and vegetables). The crust was so good, she told me, she rushed through the filling just to get to it.
In New York, pizza rustica is usually filled with salami or sopressata and a blend of cheeses. The bakers at F. Monteleone, on Court Street in Brooklyn, fill a pastry-lined pie tin with a blend of Italian fontina, fresh mozzarella, auricchio, and ricotta (actually, two types of ricotta: standard fresh ricotta and pastry ricotta), chunks of sweet and spicy sopressatas, and eggs. The end result is buttery, salty, and fluffy, with a tug of meat-chew in every bite — a nice break from dough, sauce, and cheese!
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Here's a list of pastry shops in New York that offer pizza rustica around Easter and Christmas times:
F. Monteleone - 355 Court Street - Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn - (718) 852-5600 - map
Mona Lisa - 7717 13th Avenue - Dyker Heights, Brooklyn - (718) 256-7706 - map
Fortunato Brothers - 289 Manhattan Avenue - Williamsburg, Brooklyn - (718) 387-2281 - map
Elegante - 165 Avenue U - Gravesend, Brooklyn - (718) 373-7008 - map
Ferrara - 195 Grand Street - Little Italy, Manhattan - (212) 226-6150 - map
Veniero's - 342 East 11th Street - East Village, Manhattan - (212) 674-7070 - map
Terrizzi - -35-14 30th Avenue - Astoria, Queens - (718) 726-9698 - map
F. Monteleone, the shop from which I sampled pizza rustica this season, offers it in three sizes: 10" ($25), 8" ($20), and mini ($2.50).
The first thing you notice at Di Fara Pizza on Avenue J in Midwood, Brooklyn is how shabby it looks. The trash can’s mouth is overflowing — and on top of it, empty cans and bottles accumulate. If there is an empty table, it needs to be wiped off.
You’ll also notice that the place is in a state of barely contained chaos. There are dozens of people waiting — but with no clear line. The list of orders is in a spiral notebook and on tops of pizza boxes — stacked at least a dozen high — and subject to frequent rearranging. You have questions. Q1: Has everyone already placed their orders? (Probably not.) Q2: Should you raise your hand or call out? (Definitely not.) Q3: But what if they are waiting for whole pies and you just want a slice or two? (Keep an eye on the slice pie. Politely ask, if you notice extras.)
At Di Fara you will wait, and probably wait for a while. Sometimes the wait is an hour or more — just for a slice — in this small and crowded room where the air conditioning barely works.
My friend George calls Di Fara “crack pizza.” Like addicts waiting for their dealer, customers at Di Fara wait for pizza made by owner Dom DeMarco, in a test of endurance. If you look into their eyes you can practically see their thoughts — begging him to work faster, willing that next pizza to be theirs. Stomachs grumble. Elbows are locked in defensive positions. The addict doesn’t know when the dealer will arrive, but he does know that applying pressure pays no dividends. Customers know that you don’t rush Dom — he would never consider moving faster because the pizza would suffer.
The wait isn’t for everyone. I’ve seen bemused first timers retreat to their cars mumbling and pizzaless, after five minutes. Another friend of mine loves the pizza but cannot endure the wait inside. He snags a beer from the deli across the street and sips it in the car, visiting me inside occasionally to check on our progress. The neighbors, who sustained this business for its first 30 years, don’t come anymore. They can’t fathom waiting so long. Some have asked if there could be a “locals’ day,” where they could reclaim Di Fara and not have to wait behind the usual pizza excursionists from beyond the neighborhood.
I’ve learned not to be bothered by the wait. In fact, I’ve grown to relish it. Dom, who is 75 as of this writing, essentially works alone, only ceding the tasks of food prep, taking orders, and making sense of the “line” to one of his sons or daughters. But when it comes to making the pies, Dom delegates nothing. To me, watching him is like watching a virtuoso soloist.
It starts with stretching out a new dough on the peel. He ladles on the sauce and then uses a paring knife to cut mozzarella into small pieces. They land in the center of the dough and he distributes them around. It’s not done yet, but he turns to open the oven and uses his bare hands to bring a finished pie to the counter, without hurry, lowering it into a box. He turns to grab the oil tin, opens the oven, pours some olive oil atop a nearly done square pie, and closes the oven. He returns to the finished pizza in the box and — steam still rising — drizzles on some final oil and adds a couple fistfuls of grated cheese. With scissors he clips basil from a thick rubber-banded bunch — straight onto the pie. He closes the box, and with a tap of finality, briefly acknowledges the customer with a nod. The delighted and relieved customer pays and goes. The man on stage goes back to preparing the pizza on the peel, restretching the dough with his back to the crowd. The rest of the people — who have watched his every move since first entering — each step forward a couple of inches to fill the new space. The wait continues.
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DI FARA ESSENTIALS
Who: Owner Domenico DeMarco (with five of his seven kids alternating as his backup team).
What’s there: Two kinds of pizza: round & square, available as a whole pie or by the slice. All pizza made with liberal amounts of a chunky San Marzano tomato sauce, at least two types of cheese (grana padano, low moisture (whole milk) mozzarella, and fresh cow's milk or buffalo mozzarella (for the square pies only)), extra virgin olive oil, and fresh snipped basil. Standard toppings (pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, onions, garlic, black olives, meatballs, anchovies, and peppers) and gourmet toppings (artichokes, porcini mushrooms, green olives, baby eggplant, broccoli rabe, wild onions, sun-dried roasted peppers, and sun-dried cherry tomatoes) available. White pizza and calzones also offered. BYO.
Why go: Go for the pizza and for the slow food drama. His kids plan to continue the business after he retires — and the pizza will remain great — but it may take them a while to achieve their father’s standards of perfection. “If some pies come out some way I no like, I just throw them in the garbage,” says Dom.
How: DeMarco takes New York style pizza and amps it up with insane amounts of premium ingredients. Each year he burns out a couple of thermostats because he keeps the oven cranked up to 800-900 degrees — well above the norm for a gas-burning pizza oven. Dom moves slowly — not only because he’s 75 — but because to him each pizza is a project that merits extremely careful attention. When asked what makes his pizza special, the first words out of his mouth are, “My hands.”
Quote: “Never come here when you have an appointment or a plane to catch.” -- Dom’s daughter, Margaret DeMarco Mieles
411: 1424 Avenue J (at East 15th Street) in the Midwood neighborhood of Brooklyn. Tel. 718-258-1367. Q train to Avenue J. Map Di Fara. Hours: Wed - Sat: lunch 12 - 4:00 pm, dinner 7 - 9 pm; Sun: lunch 1 - 4 pm, dinner 7 - 8 pm; closed Monday and Tuesday. Check Di Fara’s Facebook page for updated and last minute changes.
Photos by Scott Wiener, 2017
1. Me
Pizza inspires passion. Whether it’s a debate about which city has the best pizza or which neighborhood pizzeria serves up the superior slice, everywhere you go, opinions about pizza are legion, arguments are fierce, loyalties are lifelong — and everyone is an expert.
I witnessed that passion at my Uncle Charles’s restaurant. In 1977, he opened Geppetto on M Street on the edge of Georgetown in Washington, DC. His pizzas quickly became legendary, and not long after, so did the waits. Geppetto maintained a no-reservation policy, and with no bar area, patrons had to wait outside on the street when the 60-seat dining room was full. And whatever the weather, wait they did — sometimes for as long as two hours. It didn’t matter whether you were a tourist or a native Washingtonian; whether you were a rock band on tour (Van Halen waited), news anchor (Charlie Rose waited), or politician (a young Senator Joe Biden and his family waited). During one brutal evening, a manager reported that the King of Jordan was among the throngs hoping to get a table. Uncle Charles looked up from his work and with just a hint of a smile replied, “At Geppetto, even royalty waits.”
I still laugh when I recall composer Marvin Hamlisch’s unrelenting obsession. In town frequently for shows at Constitution Hall or the Kennedy Center, he was often booked on local radio and TV programs to promote his gigs. But as often as not, he’d veer off topic and rhapsodize about Geppetto — the mounds of pepperoni piled on the Neapolitan pie, or the perfect fontina cheese of the garlicky white pizza. Befuddled reporters tried in vain to steer the interview back to music, but it was a lost cause. Hamlisch was in the throes of pizza delirium and simply couldn’t help himself. (I will admit that Marvin was the one person who never had to wait for a table at Geppetto).
I moved to New York City in 1987 for college and roamed the streets on foot, camera in hand, taking in the neighborhoods and the nuanced changes that occur block by block. I also discovered what New Yorkers
already knew: really, really good pizza is everywhere.
The Stromboli Pizza near my dorm was on University Place near 12th Street. This photo shows the other Stromboli location — at the time equally good and very busy — at Second Avenue and St. Mark’s Place, c.1991.
The go-to joint near my dorm was Stromboli Pizza. It was a bright, mirrored little room that was busy all the time: at night with college kids and tipsy drinkers who’d spilled out of the neighborhood bars; during the day with office and retail workers on lunch break. I ate at the ages-old John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street, where the walls and booths were covered with scratchiti, and it smelled of dark toast and sweet tomatoes. When I visited friends up at Columbia, I went to Koronet on Broadway where a single slice from a gigantic 32” pie provided fuel for the day. One cold night, my girlfriend and I drove to Coney Island — desolate in the winter — where with the help of a friend, we downed three charred pies at the legendary Totonno Pizzeria Napolitano. At Di Fara, where there was no discernible line, I waited and salivated and — mesmerized by the styrofoam coolers of buffalo mozzarella just flown in from Italy — I waited some more.
The 32” pie at Koronet, on Broadway near 111th Street, in 2002.
Over the last dozen years as a photographer I’ve covered everything from club openings to crime scenes, sent on assignment by newspapers to neighborhoods in all corners of the city. These forays also were personal pizza hunts — yondering quests to discover the best pizza wherever a job took me. Though there’s always more “research” to do, I think I’ve compiled a good list. If you name the neighborhood, I’ll name the joint. Canarsie? Original, on Avenue L. East Harlem? Patsy’s. South Beach, Staten Island? Lee’s Tavern.
Perhaps no food is more personal and more intimate. At many pizzerias, the guy behind the slice also owns the business. Check out his hands and forearms — those calluses and scars tell stories: he wrote the recipe long ago and perfected it over the years; he made the dough and sauce that morning or the night before; and he is the one who reaches into that 700-degree oven. If you’re a regular, he knows your name, knows what you like, asks about your kids, and tells you neighborhood tales. It’s not unlike the local tavern: the bar is the counter, your bartender is the pizzaiolo, and instead of beer and booze and lemons and limes, it’s cheese and sauce and oregano and garlic. Pizza is the elixir.
My mission as a pizza documentarian is to explore the dynamic, unique and visual circumstances of pizza culture in New York. To show how a dish that first arrived in this country as a low-cost, largely improvised food for poor immigrants changed not only the eating habits of New Yorkers, but also the culinary landscape of this country. In this era of repetitious chain restaurants and caesar salads, pizza boasts as many variations as the people who make it, and continues to galvanize communities and inspire innovation.
Dom DeMarco grating cheese the old fashioned way at Di Fara, in 2002.
Visually, the impact of New York City pizza goes beyond cheese and tomato pies. At Di Fara, a hand-cranked grater clamped to a floury worktable reflects owner Dom DeMarco’s refusal to speed his process. At Louie and Ernie’s, it’s the table of girls seen through the window out back — their sweatpants, long fingernails, low voices, and eye contact all about boyfriend gossip. Balls of cloud white mozzarella neatly stacked atop the candle lit marble counter at Lucali highlight proprietor Mark Iacono’s calm demeanor as he assembles pies and manages his restaurant — both at the same time. The piano and drum set, even when unmanned, take us back to the Village circa 1960s, where jazz clubs may have lined every block but even then, Arturo’s was the grooviest spot in town for coal oven pizza. And of course it’s any one of the thousands of single room pizzerias in the five boroughs where people crowd a worn Formica counter and wait to ask the same question: “Can I get a slice?"
2. New York’s First Pizza
Photographs of Little Italy ― then known as "Mulberry Bend" ― c. 1900.
Reproduced courtesy of the Brooklyn Public Library ― The Brooklyn Collection.
Between 1880 and 1930, more than four million Italians came to the United States. In New York, many lived in tenements and worked in factories. They were downtown in Little Italy; uptown in East Harlem; in Bensonhurst, Carroll Gardens, and Williamsburg, Brooklyn; South Beach and Rose Bank, Staten Island; and Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. Exactly when and where pizza arrived has long been the subject of debate, but one cannot overstate the influence of Gennaro Lombardi. His legacy looms large, even today, over the New York — indeed, the American — pizza landscape.
In the 1890s, Lombardi, a young Italian trained as a baker, immigrated to New York from Naples. By day, he worked in a small grocery on Spring Street; at night, he baked enormous breads in a timeshare oven in Brooklyn — afterwards transporting his loaves by horse and wagon to Little Italy (then known as Mulberry Bend). He sold some of his wares to the grocery, and the rest he peddled on the street, shouting, “O pane! O pane!” (Italian for “Bread! Bread!”). When Italians called down to him from their tenement windows, he hustled up the stairs and delivered right to their apartment doors — no extra charge.
Because most of the Italians were poor, Lombardi and the grocery tailored their wares to fit tight budgets. The store portioned its products as necessary, selling single plum tomatoes from the can à la carte, and Lombardi began to sell sparsely-topped scraps of dough, baked in various sizes. He made these pizzas thin — like the ones he’d eaten in Naples — and wrapped each in paper, using string to tie several together in stacks for the trip back to Manhattan.
Many Italians worked in Soho textile factories that had windows spanning from floor to ceiling. Those who bought pizza from Lombardi ate half for breakfast and saved the rest for lunch — keeping it warm in the window sills.
When, in the early 1900s, the grocery owner decided to return to Italy, Lombardi bought the building along with the store, and promised to send checks to the owner’s family for the next twenty years. He also installed a huge coal-burning baker’s oven in the back of the shop.
Anthony “Totonno” Pero (l) and Gennaro Lombardi (r), c.1905.
We’ll never know who was the very first person to sell pizza in New York City. However, writings on the topic — such as Ed Levine’s anthology “Pizza -- A Slice of Heaven,” — credit Lombardi: “Lombardi acquired his official business license to open and operate the first pizzeria in New York City at 53½ Spring Street in 1905.” A photograph of Lombardi and Anthony “Totonno” Pero — who went on to open his own pizzeria — shows them standing in front of Lombardi’s store (the writing on the window says “pizzeria”) and is dated 1905. A 1956 article in The New York Times Magazine stated that “nobody... disputed his claim to having the oldest pizzeria in the United States.”
In the original Lombardi’s, c.1925 (l-r, starting with tall man): Giovanni Lombardi, Filomena Lombardi, Gennaro Lombardi (back row), and George Lombardi (other two men to the right and people in the booth to the left, not unidentified).
I learned from Lombardi’s grandson Gennaro “Gerry” Lombardi, that Lombardi (the senior) continued to run the business as a grocery that also sold bread and pizza until around 1920, when he converted it to a full-fledged Italian restaurant and pizzeria. At this point he began to make his pizzas much bigger. Customers often dined with their families, and Lombardi’s larger 18” pies — cut into eight slices — could feed four people.
For decades, Lombardi’s was an important hub of Little Italy. During the day, it served the local community — families, workers, and the elderly — and at night, it remained open until the wee hours, attracting a more affluent crowd that influenced celebrities like Italian opera singer Enrico Caruso in the early years, and Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby in the 1950s.
During renovations of the original Lombardi’s in the 1930s, Gennaro’s wife Filomena
sat outside the restaurant to inform passersby that Lombardi’s was still open for business.
Gennaro Lombardi was also the de facto patriarch of American pizza — in fact, people knew him as Don Gennaro. He sponsored innumerable Italian immigrants — many bakers like himself. He provided them with room and board, and jobs as bakers. Anthony “Totonno” Pero and John Sasso each immigrated to New York under Lombardi’s sponsorship, and each saved enough to open his own place — Pero with Totonno’s in 1924, and Sasso with John’s Pizza (originally called Pizzeria Port’Alba) in 1925.
During the first half of the 20th century, pizza helped to sustain some of New York’s earliest shops, but their clientele still comprised mainly Italian immigrants and their children. Pies were not flying out the door and most Americans hadn’t yet heard of pizza. But this was about to change.
3. The 1950s - 1980s
Mastro's ad for a gas-burning pizza oven ran in an Italian-language newspaper in New York, mid-20th cenutry.
By the 1950s, a curious thing happened: pizza gained mass appeal. Some histories cite American soldiers who discovered the food while serving in Italy during World War II as the reason for its success. I like to imagine the headline: WAR ENDS, AMERICANS DEFEAT ITALIAN FASCISTS AND CLAIM PIZZA AS OWN.
As demand increased, more shops opened. But the original coal-burning pizza ovens were huge, expensive, and temperamental — and only skilled and watchful pizza men could work them. Frank Mastro, owner of a large restaurant supply shop on the Bowery, addressed this problem and enabled generations to bake pizza more easily. He tinkered with ovens, converted them from coal to gas, and developed the prototypical gas deck oven. The 1957 Saturday Evening Post article “Crazy About Pizza,” credited Mastro with “having done most to popularize pizza,” and described the “model pizzeria [he had] in his store to show prospective pizzeria owners how to run their operations” as integral to Mastro’s business strategy. It was inexpensive to open a pizzeria and newcomers had a good chance for success — in the 1950s, ovens cost less than $200, the markup on a pie was nearly 300%, and to increase sales, Mastro himself financed many purchases.
Image of an early gas deck oven produced by Frank Mastro.
Not only did gas ovens make pizza more economical to cook, but because they produced evenly cooked crust — without burnt areas — pizza became more palatable to a broader population.
Television and silver screen stars further broadened pizza’s popularity. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Jackie Gleason, and many others all touted pizza in their shows, movies, songs — and personal lives. Walk into an older pizzeria, and there’s a good chance you’ll find a Frank Sinatra photo or poster on the wall.
Italian immigrants continued to come to New York, and many — over 900 between 1958 and 1980 — opened new pizzerias. Pizza became familiar and ubiquitous in New York City.
4. The 1980s - 2012
By the 1980s, what had been an inexpensive food for immigrants, and then an affordable food for the masses, also became haute cuisine. It began in California in 1981 when Wolfgang Puck opened Spago and served little pizzas with eclectic ingredients on beautiful china to an A-list crowd. Pizza was suddenly gourmet — and the era of (at times) questionable experimentation had begun.
Food writers played along, promoting pizza as a fancy food in their restaurant reviews. In 1985, New York Magazine critic Gael Greene wrote a cover story called “The Joy of Pizza.” She picked Fiorello’s, a pricy place near Lincoln Center, as her favorite. She especially liked their “East Side Juliano” pizza, which was topped with “two runny sunny-side-up eggs and crisp bits of smoky bacon.” In 1987, Times reviewer Bryan Miller wrote that one of his all-time favorite appetizers — “puffy-crusted little pizzas slathered with a piquant wasabi mustard and topped with tuna sashimi” — was on the menu at the Quilted Giraffe, a Midtown restaurant geared toward “the sort of big-league corporate clients that frequent the Four Seasons.” Eggs and raw fish on pizza? What would Don Gennaro Lombardi think?!
Fortunately, creativity wasn’t only for the rich. In 1987, a pair of filmmakers opened Two Boots, a new kind of pizzeria in the East Village on Avenue A. It was colorful and artsy, and drew local punks, artists, and college kids on a budget. The pizza — affordable and unusual — was inspired in part by the popularity of Cajun cuisine. It featured a cornmeal-dusted crust, a cayenne-spiced sauce, and a choice of toppings that included andouille sausage, crawfish, and barbecue shrimp.
After graduating from college, I worked for a year at Two Boots To Go, on Avenue A.
Photo shows my coworker Lucas as he spins a dough, c.1991.
By the 1980s and ‘90s, savvy pizzeria owners began to recognize that New York’s earliest pizzerias were assets that could be built into chains, or — in the case of Lombardi’s — opened again (it had closed in 1986). In 1984, John’s Pizza expanded (by 2010 it had three locations, including one in Times Square that, with seating for 500, may be the largest pizza restaurant in the world). In 1990 Patsy Grimaldi, nephew of Patsy Lancieri — another New York pizza pioneer — opened a pizzeria in Brooklyn, under the Brooklyn Bridge. In 1994, John Brescio and Gerry Lombardi teamed up to reopen Lombardi’s: fresh mozzarella, simple San Marzano tomato sauce, and an old coal-burning baker’s oven that harkened to New York’s early pizza days. Patsy’s and Totonno’s also opened multiple locations.
A publicity photo of Gerry Lombardi (l) and John Brescio (r) in the newly reopened Lombardi’s, c.1994.
In 1998 Times reporter Eric Asimov wrote “New York Pizza, the Real Thing, Makes a Comeback,” in which he declared that New York pizza “is a phrase synonymous with greatness,” and, referring to the new openings, proclaimed that “pizza lovers can rejoice: the true New York pizza is back in town.” It was old style New York pizza asserting itself to the slice joints, to the linen napkin restaurants with their raw fish pizzas, and to the world.
Beginning with La Pizza Fresca in the Gramercy Park area, the mid-1990s also marked the start of another trend: pizza’s return from Italy. Naples-style pizzas have not changed for hundreds of years. The dough is moist and yeasty, and a quick bake in a dome-shaped wood-burning oven renders tiny dots of char along the top and bottom surfaces. The cheese is fresh mozzarella, the tomatoes are San Marzano — grown on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius volcano, near Naples — and the size is individual and pricy. As of 2012, there are dozens of restaurants in New York serving these little pizzas for at least $14 each.
Carey Gordon, a longtime customer at Patsy’s, in East Harlem, digs into a slice of sausage, August 2010.
Today, there are at least a dozen English-language blogs devoted solely to pizza and two competing pizza tours in New York. But besides splashy new openings and hundred-year-old establishments, what makes this food so special?
Pizza knows no constrictions. It’s a $1.00 slice in Midtown or a $19 single serving Margherita at Fiorello’s. It’s coal oven mastery or gas oven simplicity. It’s prepared with house-made mozzarella at Orignal Pizza in Canarsie, Brooklyn, or served with mashed-up basil and garlic at South Brooklyn Pizza in the East Village. It’s straight-up cheese and tomato, or it’s an Indo-Pak pie — with curry powder, jalapeños, and loads of onion and garlic — at Famous Pizza in Elmhurst, Queens. It’s cut into slices or it’s not. It’s upside-down, grandma style, Sicilian, or grilled; some make it with clams, others with anchovies and breadcrumbs; it’s even eaten for breakfast.
Pizza is special not only because of the pizza itself. The social environment created by an ever-present owner — this is also pizza. I love to talk to the owners and the customers, I love to listen in and hear the passions and the trivialities, all bundled into the time it takes to eat a slice or two.
The New York pizza culture I celebrate exists because pizza is about freedom. From its earliest days in New York as a career choice for Italian immigrants, to the present era of diverse options, pizza has always captured the imagination of entrepreneurs and diners alike. It is a food without boundaries, beloved in some form by people of all backgrounds.
But in the United States, pizza began in New York City with Gennaro Lombardi. More on this topic here.
Notes:
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In the writing of this piece I benefited greatly from the editing prowess and sharp memory of my friend and longtime comrade-in-food, Chris Artis.
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Historic Lombardi's photos provided by Gerry Lombardi.
It was the old one-slice-turns-into-two routine today at Tony's on Graham. I followed up on the plain with a slice of fresh mozzarella. Wilted basil leaves blended with a floating pool of extra virgin olive oil and created a pesto effect ― but sans pesto. I like!
Based on details I received from food writer Rachel Wharton, I pictured the Tony's guys as old school Brooklyn types. They pretty much were, although I didn't engage them too much― since it was my first visit. I noticed they did not pause conversations for customers. Pretty awesome. I don't remember exactly exactly how it went, but it was something like this:
Customer: "I'd like a slice of regular and ―"
Counterguy: "[conversation continued, I think it was about the competition pizzeria across the street, brief pause]"
Customer: "and I'll try that thick slice with the eggplant, to ―"
Counterguy: "[conversation continues, oh maybe he's talking on his phone via Bluetooth to someone, not sure about what, brief pause]"
Customer: "to stay."
Counterguy picks up the two slices from display trays, tosses them in the oven to reheat, and continues his conversation.
Excellent slices. Next time I will pay amore attention to the words from behind the counter. Future report possible.
Map Tony's. Call ahead for days/hours. Tel. 718-384-TONY.
At some point during my unhappy junior high years ― I think it was 1980 or ‘81 ― my family visited New York for a weekend. Aside from hitting certain predictable Midtown attractions (hansom ride in Central Park, Fifth Avenue, watching ice skaters) ― we went down to the Village forRay’s Pizza ― ie. THE Ray’s Pizza ― the one at the corner of 6th Avenue & 11th Street, which served a stretchy, artery-clogging, oozy and indulgent slice of pie. The cheese per slice must have weighed at least a quarter-pound ― it was disgusting. And it was my favorite part of the weekend.
The Ray’s phenomenon ― dozens of New York pizzerias called Ray’s (or some mutation of the name, like Famous Rays or Famous Original Rays) ― has perplexed many a soul who’ve set foot in Manhattan. In 2006 a reader posed a question to the New York Times’s “F.Y.I.” column: “The city is filled with Ray’s Pizzas. Where was the first Ray’s Pizza and what’s the story behind it?” The answer given was that Ray’s Pizza on Prince Street opened in 1959, but it otherwise did not offer much detail on the saga. (Many articles and posts have since elaborated. I like pizza historian Scott Wiener’s 2011 rendition.)
I would guess that the Ray’s at 6th Avenue & 11th Street must have garnered more fame and bigger crowds during the 1970s-‘80s than any other Ray’s ever. (Its ascent may have begun when in 1973 a “Talk of the Town” piece in The New Yorker called their pizza “reliably and famously delicious,” and pointed out that while living in London, its owner had been second chef at the American embassy and head chef at the Italian and Greek embassies.)
In the pizza business, endurance and consistency are not guaranteed. The last time I ate at the Greenwich Village Ray’s, I found the weight of the cheese unbearable and its texture like rubber. Maybe it was an off day. But, however it happened, that particular Ray’s ― famous in its past ― closed for good in October 2011. According to the Village Voice, the owners faced a rent increase and lost their lease. (Soon to open in its place: Famous Original Ray’s ― not kidding.)
The truly-true original Ray’s (at 27 Prince Street) also closed in 2011. Its owner, who shares a stake in the building with family, told me that they voted to raise the rent. Her pizzeria couldn’t afford to stay. (The space has since been divided in half and replaced with a new pizzeria called Prince Street Pizza and a soon-to-be spa.)
Of course it boils down to economics.
The owner of a well-revered-but-small pizzeria on the Upper West Side told me that he must sell 300 slices a day to break even on the rent alone ($9,000/month). That’s before all of the other costs ― like ingredients, gas & electric, salaries, and taxes. Sure, in New York a good pizzeria can sell many pies, but at what point does high rent make a small (but worthwhile) business no longer viable? If, as the owner fears, the rent increases $12,000/month when it expires in five years, the city will lose yet another valuable pizza asset.
We can’t fight this. But we can elect to support good places. Manhattan residents may have the most to worry about since that’s where rents are highest. (Of course, the success of a business depends on more than the cost of rent.)
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It’s not just closings. The upscaling of pizza has long been underway. In the last five years, we’ve seen many new places opting to sell $14 individual pies rather than $3 slices.
A $14 margherita is made with imported (or fresh/local) mozzarella, naturally sweet tomatoes, and a dough made from premium flour. It serves one. Di Fara Pizza, deep in Brooklyn, charges $5 per slice for pizza made with generous portions of fresh mozzarella, Italian parmesan, and extra virgin olive oil. $14, $5: these prices may seem high, but compared to non-pizza restaurants a cheese and tomato pie remains a budget-worthy fresh food option.
Occupying the middle price tier of New York pizza are artisanal shops that have ― sometimes for generations ― served homemade pies with a level of pride and class well beyond that of the cheap eats spots. To me, these “old school” places define New York pizza ― an institution that has dominated the city’s affordable food landscape for over 50 years. They include slice spots like Joe’s on Carmine Street and whole-pie-only restaurants like Totonno’s in Coney Island and John’s on Bleecker Street.
At the bottom end of the spectrum, 99¢ slice spots move hundreds (or is it thousands?!) of pies a day, employing minimal craftsmanship and using low-cost, low-quality ingredients. We should be concerned that as rents and costs continue to climb, these types of pizzerias could continue their campaign against quality.
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In an earlier post, I published data on New York’s mid-century pizza boom. According to my count from old phone books, the number of pizzerias in Manhattan grew from ten in 1958, to 165 in 1970. As the pace of city life increased over time and the array of quick food options broadened, fast food gained an increasing foothold in the city. But unlike much of the competition in this category (for instance, hot dogs from a cart), pizza has long stood out as more homemade than most other quick food options ― a good pizzeria prepares its dough and sauce from scratch, uses a minimally-processed low moisture mozzarella (or fresh mozzarella), and cooks pies to order.
In a 1985 New York Times article entitled “Pizza Chains Toughest Turf,” the growth of national pizza chains was cited as a threat to established NYC pizza shops. Godfather’s had opened a few branches in Manhattan and had promised to open more; and though neither Domino’s nor Pizza Hut had yet opened, plans were in the works.
Dennis Riese (of the Riese Organization, the conglomerate that operated Godfather’s restaurants in Manhattan at the time), said about the coming storm of chain pizzerias: ‘We will probably change the pizza industry in New York City.’”
As a response, the article quoted Vito Bologna, manager of The One and Only Ray’s Pizza in Greenwich Village: “‘They could have over 200 stores and it won’t matter to us,” he said.
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I haven’t yet gone to the pizzeria that replaced the 1959 Ray’s on Prince Street, but I’d venture to guess prices will be higher. The city’s first slice was probably served at Patsy’s in Harlem, where owner Patsy Lancieri sought to bring pizza (and many other varieties of affordable food) to the Italians who lived nearby during the the Depression years. Even Gennaro Lombardi, who may have been the first to make a round pizza big enough to cut into eight slices did so with economy in mind. Pizza ought to be affordable. When the price of pizza gets too high, it’ll be clear that it’s time to get out of Dodge. That is, unless you can afford to stay in Dodge.
It’s no debate. Pizza rules the New York cityscape like no other food. Stand at any Manhattan corner and look around. Chances are you’ll see pizza. In the outer boroughs — places where people often have cars — density is a bit lower, but still: pizza.
And it’s not just magnitude. The pizza you find is nearly always decent. Even the 99¢ spots that have riddled Manhattan with snaking lines during the past few years of "economic downturn" produce edible specimens. Of course, side by side with a slice of quality pizza, a 99-cent jobbie does not compare (doughy crust and cheap cheese: no thanks!), but for a buck who would complain?
It wasn't always this way. Pizza first arrived in New York (and the US) sometime around 1900. The earliest US pizza shop on record (Lombardi's) began as a small grocery whose owner (Gennaro Lombardi) topped scraps of dough (he was a baker by trade) with tomatoes and/or cheese. For a couple decades, one could find pizza only in Italian neighborhoods.
In the 1930 eating guide "Dining in New York," intrepid food writer Rian James described the pizza at Moneta's (an Italian restaurant on Mulberry Street) as "an inch-thick potato pan-cake, sprinkled with Parmesan Cheese and stewed tomatoes." Yuck!
On September 20, 1944, the New York Times's triple-row front page headline read
BRITISH NEAR RHINE IN 37-MILE SWEEP NORTH AFTER AIR ARMY JOINS IN CAPTURING EINDHOVEN; RUSSIANS 7 MILES FROM RIGA IN BALTIC PUSH.
and buried on page 19 amongst mainly stories of the war was a piece entitled "News of Food: Pizza, a Pie Popular in Southern Italy is Offered Here for Home Consumption." In it, food writer Margot Murphy (aka Jane Holt) offered a thorough and enticing description of pizza:
One of the most popular dishes in southern Italy, especially in the vicinity of Naples, is pizza - a pie made from a yeast dough and filled with any number of different centers, each containing tomatoes. Cheese, mushrooms, anchovies, capers, onions, and so on may be used. At 147 West Forty-eighth Street, a restaurant called Lugino's Pizzeria Alla Napoletana prepares authentic pizze, which may be ordered to take home. They are packed, piping hot, in special boxes for that purpose.
Pizza had expanded beyond Little Italy to Midtown!
I romanticize New York's past, especially when it comes to steam rising from manholes, crisp metal skyscrapers, the endless shuffle of all kinds of people, and (of course) neon pizza signs outlined by flashing yellow bulbs. But as fast as New Yorkers may hustle down sidewalks today, I imagine an even brisker pace in 1944 — fedoras and all. Murphy wrote that "after five to seven minutes of baking (the oven is kept at an extraordinarily high temperature) it is ready to serve, the whole operation having taken not more than ten or twelve minutes." Two pies to go, please!
I spent some quality time in the microfilm room at the New York Public Library, thumbing page by page through old phone books. "Pizza" as a separate category first appeared in 1958, but has never included certain full-fledged restaurants that happen to serve pizza. (Lombardi’s, over the years, appeared under "Restaurants - Italian," but not under the “Pizza” heading.)
The count is not definitive, but the results are telling: the greatest decade-over-decade citywide increase came between 1960-1970 (+231%). Factoring in the two years of available data prior to 1960, the 1958-1970 increase was 735%. Wow! (Click on the graph at the top of this piece for raw data, &/or scroll to bottom for count methodology.)
A number of factors contributed to pizza’s incredible ascent: celebrity enthusiasm, Americans' increasing curiosity in and willingness to try different ethnic foods, and a national trend toward convenience (eg. TV dinners, fast food). But none had as much of an effect as did changes in pizza oven technology.
Leading the charge was Frank Mastro, a restaurant equipment shop owner who tinkered with ovens, converted them to gas, and together with a thermostat company developed the gas deck oven (the oven used by most pizzerias).
Gas made pizza-making much easier. A craft that was limited to bakers skilled in working very hot, huge, and finicky coal ovens became a career for people without baking or pizza skills. Instead of stoking coal, pizzaioli now had only to turn a dial.
In 1957 a Saturday Evening Post article entitled “Crazy About Pizza" asserted that Frank Mastro had “done [the] most to popularize pizza.” It described a “model pizzeria [he had] in his store to show prospective pizzeria owners how to run their operations." According to his daughter, Madeline Mastro Ferrentino, Mastro also financed oven purchases from out of his own pocket. The dude believed in pie.
Fast forward to today, through decades of continued growth for pizza — more Italian immigrants, Greek-owned shops, the thick-crust Chicago-like craze, haute and pricey pizza, and the more recent surge in "new Neapolitan" restaurants (pristine ingredients, wood fired ovens, single-plate pies, and accomplished chefs as owners) — and yet the endless array of slice joints still dominates. Thank heavens — who doesn't love a meal for under $10?
The other day, I spent a little time during lunch hour at My Little Pizzeria — a good place located in a busy area of downtown Brooklyn, close to city courts and a number of office buildings. I was there to document the preparation of their amazing "Supreme" pie for a future piece. For a while, I zenned out on the long line and how the staff of five churned out pizza with such flair and efficiency. And this sort of thing is going on all across the city, every day: people making pizza, people eating pizza, people loving pizza. By the thousands.
I made a short video of pizza in action. View it by clicking the above photo.
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Notes on the counting method:
I went page by page through Yellow Pages books from each of the five boroughs. I counted every pizzeria listed under "Pizza" but avoided double counting any same-named listings at the same address.
On the "Yellow Pages" website, a search for the business type "Pizza" in Brooklyn today yields a list of 1,149 pizzerias — a number far greater than the 475 I counted in the 2010 print Yellow Pages. I cannot explain the discrepancy because I do not know the criteria for listings inclusion with either resource. The website may allow broader criteria (perhaps the keyword "pizza" is enough to merit inclusion); it may not have purged pizzerias that closed two years ago; and may include redundant or non-Brooklyn listings (#114, for instance, is Famous Rays of Greenwich Village in Manhattan). The print Yellow Pages might be missing listings — I imagine that today its production is limited to a small staff — and in years prior, it's possible that many pizzerias were omitted. Therefore, I've called the results of my count "unofficial."
The only way to tally pizzerias in the past is to use the print Yellow Pages. If, over the deades, the Yellow Pages employed an even methodology to the compiliation of its listings, then the proportionate growth in the number of pizzerias should be statistically accurate.
Shocking news: In an attempt to steal the throne of OLDEST PIZZERIA IN US from Lombardi's in New York, Papa's Tomato Pies in Trenton has claimed this title for themselves. Fifty-four years ago, when the New York Times Magazine covered Lombardi's, the author wrote that nobody disputed [Gennaro Lombardi's] claim to having the oldest pizzeria in the United States. (Mitgang, Herbert. "Pizza a la Mode: In many variations, Italy's famous pie now rivals the hot dog in popularity." New York Times Magazine, 12 Feb. 1956).
Here's Papa's owner Nick Azzaro's side of things: Lombardi's closed for several years and moved down the street. (The Times' "Diner's Journal" blog ran this story in July 2011, and included video coverage. Here it is.)
True, Lombardi's did close and then reopen in a different space (former bakery, old coal oven) a block and half away from the original. But isn't it still Lombardi's? Same dough, same ingredients on top (Italian San Marzano tomatoes and mozzarella from Joe's Dairy on Sullivan Street).
Besides, it's not just a recipe -- it's a process. Genarro's grandson, Gerry, who grew up in Lombardi's and was proprietor of the restaurant after his grandmother passed away, contributed the pizza knowhow for the 1994 reopening.
Just the other day, Motorino in Brooklyn closed because its building was falling apart. And M. Wells, a celebrated diner in Long Island City (it earned two stars from Sam Sifton in the Times) announced it was closing because the landlord demands "included astronomically high rent, a short length of lease and a strict buy-out clause." Motorino Brooklyn and M. Wells both vow to reopen. In other words, the restaurant business — tough already — is even tougher in NYC.
I haven't been yet to Papa's — and I'd love to go — not because it may be America's oldest pizzeria but rather, because folks in Trenton awesomely call pizza, tomato pie.
I got close once: lunching at Jo Jo's Tavern in Mercerville, NJ — four miles from Papa's. At Jo Jo's they call it pizza, but when I asked the waitress what she calls it, and she said, tomato pie.
"What about this cheeseless Clams Casino pizza you have," I asked her. "What do you call that?" "That's a tomato pie too," she said. ("How is it?" I asked. "Amazing," she said. Next time!)
Truth told, I don't know which pizzeria is the oldest. If Papa's can claim it is older because Lombardi's switched locations and was closed for 8 years, can't Totonno's can claim that Papa's isn't oldest because Papa s has changed locations twice, while Totonno's has not moved from 1524 Neptune Avenue since 1924? Extenuating circumstances.
Anyway, does it matter? I prefer to base judgement on a bunch of P's: Personality, Presence, Perseverance, and of course, Pizza. Lombardi's, check. Totonno's, check. Papa's, (based on faith, until I go there) check!
The top photo of Lombardi's, c1920s or '30s, courtesty Lombardi's.
I used to throw a crab feast every other year in New York. Each time, I went to Fulton Market around 4 am the night before to pick up the 1-3 bushels of Maryland crabs I’d ordered in advance from a guy named Pepe. The market ― rare for its sales volume in the US ― was an adventure all its own, made wilder to a layman like myself since the vendors did not cater to individuals. Instead, customers were all volume buyers like distributors and retailers: it was was only open at night, felt a bit dangerous, and everybody there was busy. I brought a volunteer friend/helper on the occasion of each feast and together we wandered between and around the stalls ― watching men cut fish, stepping out of the way from puddles of fish blood and high speed forklifts and carts stacked high with wet bulging boxes. I avoided eye contact with anyone who looked our way. After our bit of wandering, we’d hook up with Pepe -- who devoted about one minute of his time to the transaction of our live crabs which for sure had taken me many hours of planning.
There is no multiple-vendor retail fish market in New York. In fact, I welcome information on any existing market in the US with seafood as its focus. In NYC the best option is a visit to one of the many greenmarkets (like Union Square) which may have a few options. Otherwise, go to Chinatown.
What about the rest of the country?
Pike Place Market in Seattle? Only four fishmongers in total, and you can find cheaper Dungeness Crab at Uwajimaya. Los Angeles area? Don’t think so. San Francisco? Chinatown.
Washington, DC? Yes, actually! The excellent Maine Avenue fish market ― with 6 independent vendors ― is old-school and affordable. I just phoned up Captain White’s Seafood City, at (202) 484-CRAB, and learned that they’ve got male XLs for $32/dozen, live or steamed. [By comparison, I also found out from City Crab (a restaurant in New York ― not fair, I know) that today’s price for steamed crabs is about $85/dozen. Conclusion reached: if you want crabs, get out of Gotham.]
But as far as I can tell, you’d have to leave the US for the fish market of my dreams. [Or, for that matter, for the produce market of my dreams: farmers’ markets in the US are expensive, right? (Arrow-click the above photo for a shot of the amazing market in Villefranche-sur-Saône, Beaujolais, France. Dang.)
The situation with fish differs from produce. First, there’s the issue of overfished fish: we don’t want fish to disappear. Then there’s the problem of contaminants: probably why you don’t find shark on sushi menus. In São Paolo, Brazil, due to a parasite outbreak a few years ago, they made a law that all fish sold there ― including for sushi ― had to be frozen first. And of course, fish tastes best in any country when consumed close to the time it was caught. [On beaches all along the Brazilian coastline, fishermen offer to cook a mixed seafood barbecue ―fresh off the boat!]
I can’t recommend seafood based on safety or ecological correctness, but check out this pocket guide of recommendations and warnings from the Monterey Bay Aquarium in California.Since it only addresses fish sold in the US, it’s with an asterisk of naïvité ― and please forgive the digressions ― that I hereby designate the fish market in Catania, Italy as a SEAFOOD WONDER OF THE WORLD.
Sensing danger from oncoming non-stopping traffic at every intersection and hearing firsthand from my friend that organized crime ― well, let’s just say ― "exists" in Catania, I feel safe remarking that Catania is not over-policed. And when Nick’s friends in the breakfast bar warned me not to take pictures at the fish market because someone would snatch my camera, I weighed their advice.
"How would they get my camera," I asked, as I demonstrated a tight hold. And then the friend showed me: he swiped at the strap on each side of the camera, got his hand onto the camera grip, and made as if to run off with Mr. Canon. Oh, that's how.
As we walked through a piazza on the way to the market, Nick pointed to the window display of a souvenir shop: Godfather bobbleheads. “See?” he said.
If I hadn’t been so concerned with my camera ― I clutched it for dear life ― I might have thought to record audio or video because the dominant characteristic (besides the enormous selection of fish just off the boat) of the Catania Fish Market is the sound of the mongers as they siren in crestfallen Italian ― “FISH FISH COME TRY MY FISH ― COME SEE MY FISH ― I HAVE THE BEST FISH ― FRESH FISH ― FISH FISH."
Sure, there were tourists and gawkers meandering between the bloody buckets and flesh covered tables ―and a local news team covering the action (it was Good Friday ― a day where all but the most reformed of Catholics abstain from meat) ― but the majority of perusers were shopping. When Nick’s dad Mario reached the stand of his fish guy, he and Nick took their time deciding which fish to get. I snapped photos, sniffed around, and wandered behind the tables to check out the pavement people don't see ― here's a photo.
And then the magic happened: an elder fishmonger offered me a raw shrimp ― in a most special of ways. He peeled the legs portion and, holding it by the shell, reached it to within inches of my mouth. I felt like an ancient Greek being fanned and fed grapes. I opened my mouth, craned my neck by a micron, and as I enveloped the shrimp from his fingers with my mouth, he clung to the glassy shell. He fed me. I had let him feed me. It happened fast.
He offered me another, and ― because I'd had a moment to reflect ― I realized I didn’t know the decorum and didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. So I took shrimp #2 from him with my hands. And then, when my wife declined his offer for a raw shrimp of her own, I had a third ― taking it again with my hands since that way had worked fine.
The Catania Fish Market has about as many vendors as the Union Square Greenmarket in NYC, but about three-quarters of them sell only seafood. And though it’s the sort of thing one must see to believe, here's a slideshow of some of the shots I got during our visit. The lead photo is of Nick's father Mario, in the car on the way there.
SLIDESHOW: With Mario & Nick @ Catania Fish Market
Mario pulled into oncoming traffic to grab a space across the street from breakfast. Terrifying.
A small roadside produce stand that we passed: don't mess with this guy.
Mario took special care of us throughout our 4 day visit.
The vendors sounded devastated as they sang out in mismatched chorus (in Italian): FISH FISH I'VE GOT THE BEST FISH BUY MY FISH.
A pan on a stand for counting out small fish. Cool hat.
The two most prized fish in Catania are swordfish and tuna. Here's a peek at the latter.
Snails and dill.
Live snails: 8 Euros per kilo.
Because it was Good Friday, the television news showed up to interview fishmongers and customers.
Tuna and sword.
Mario says hello to a friend.
Part of our lunch purchase.
What are these?!!
Fish Market Chiosco! Read my earlier post to learn about these drink shacks unique to Catania.
Inky squid: a local favorite, made with pasta.
Local shrimp.
Calamari.
Part of a tuna and swordfish display. Isn't the conical piece at right a bit creepy?
Wow.
The fishmonger who hand-fed me several raw shrimp.
Kristin: Are you sure you don't want to try octopus? Yum!
Blu-express Airlines offers inexpensive flights to Catania from many cities in Europe. Catania Fish Market is open every day except Sunday from 6 am until 11 or 12.
Map Catania.
Okay, New York. Alright, Naples. Stop right there, San Francisco. You're all in for a pizza showdown. And the contender is... Rome.
Roman pizza ― and by this I don't mean the single-server round jammies sold in fork-and-knife spots just about all over Europe ― is referred to by Italians as pizza al taglio (ie. pizza by the slice). It's a long tray pie with thinnish crust and ― if done right ― numerous pockets of air.
"Plain" (to me, at least) means topped with melty ― but not melted ― chunks of hand pulled mozzarella di bufala, a fresh (or outsourced, but local) tomato sauce, olive oil and basil leaves. Rollover the above photo to catch a glimpse. Now, go buy your ticket!
I first visited Rome in '96. My friend Alexia brought me to the historic sites (of course), but also to plenty of food shops. I remember a tiny pizza room along Campo de' Fiori (a famous Roman piazza with an outdoor food market) whose thin crust scissor-cut room temp pizza blew me away. I went there at least half a dozen times and never deviated from mushroom. Never. That place is gone now, Alexia doesn't even remember it, and Campo de'Fiori is rife with tourism ― though still worth a visit.
Over the years she brought me to many other places ― all amazing, all in the town center. And then, during one visit in 2000 she announced, "I found a place for pizza that's a little out of the way. The wall is lined with trophies. They win awards for pizza. I think they even have a school for making pizza."
Let's go!
It was the mozzarella di bufala that got me right away: a cheese white as clouds and with a softness you just don't find here in the US.
Importers bring this cheese to the US by plane but it's packed with water in sealed plastic bags and has become soggy and a bit mushy during transport ― it's not as good. One suggestion I read online ― but have yet to try ― is to find a store that receives it on the same day it arrives in the US and buy it there that day. I doubt it would be as good as in Italy, but it seems a reasonable thing to try.
Buffalo mozzarella is mainly imported because the type of water buffalo that makes the milk used for this cheese is not the same as domestic American buffalo. This is an American buffalo; this is an Italian buffalo (actually, Asian buffalo).
So this place ― it's called Angelo e Simonetta ― blew me away, and I've been going there ever since. They put a lot of effort also into their dough with a rise that involves near 0℃ hibernation for almost five days. The result is a springy crust filled with air pockets that, according to owner Gabriele Jezzi, aids in digestion.
Jezzi declined to discuss the trophies. He said that trophies are just there, and that he reserves his pride for his customers who come back again and again. He's not interested in fame but only in producing excellent pizza. "My satisfaction is you," he said.
Some of the pizzas I've tried at Angelo e Simonetta include speck & truffle, zucchini flower, potato & pesto, and Roman broccoli & sausage.
It's a pizzeria for Roman locals. Totally off the tourist radar (the only customers I've ever seen there are Italians) and serving some of the best pizza I've had. It's like Di Fara before the crowds: fancy ingredients on a well-nurtured crust from a guy who happens to care a heck of a lot for pizza.
Click the above photo for a behind the scenes video from Pizzeria Angelo e Simonetta.
Map Angelo e Simonetta. Call ahead for days/hours. Tel. +39 068.7188853
Acclimation to Sicily began at the airport in Rome, where for every inch we moved forward in line (it seemed a good chance we might miss our plane), a certain pushy man in weekday attire encroached as if somehow his pushiness might cause us to let him cut in line. When an agent from the airline opened the rope and invited anyone going to Catania to bypass the line, Mr. Pushy shoved past us to get to the counter first.
Along the way to Nick's parents' house in Catania (where we would stay for four nights) I stared out the windshield at the gritty seaside beauty of the town and the frightening looming majesty of the snow-capped live volcano in the background. Etna had erupted just a few months ago (here’s a video) — could this happen during our visit? I gazed everywhere, soaking in the surroundings — but I also did my best to listen to Nick’s descriptions of what we were seeing.
“You see this wall,” he said, “You see how it’s bent? That’s because the sea used to go up that high.
“Look at the sidewalks. You see they’re black? They’re made of lava.” (Scroll above photo.)
“Look over there, see that — it’s a chiosco. They’re only in Catania. It’s a hangout spot, they have amazing drinks.”
Huh? Why’s he talking about Costco, I thought to myself — a little spacey and not quite hearing the part about amazing drinks — as I stared at the volcano, noticed the harbor, wondered about the graffiti, watched squeegee guys attacking windshields without permission, and marveled at details of the many 18th century façades.
We drove onward and up a hill and passed other sights along the way toward the house. Nick described the food plans he had in mind for our three day visit to his hometown — a visit during which I felt so touched by his unrelenting desire to share with me as much as possible. (“Three days is not enough,” he said. “We need at least a month.”)
And for the third or fourth time during our drive, Nick pointed to another little shack and said, “You see? Another chiosco.”
Waking up to this word finally — and realizing that he couldn’t (in Italy) be speaking of the American warehouse store Costco — I asked him, “What’s a chiosco?”
“Have you been listening to me?” he said.
Uh oh, I thought to myself, Not well enough, I guess.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been soaking it all in. Please tell me again. I’m listening.”
“Chiosco,” Nick said, “is a place where you get fruit drinks and other drinks made with soda water and lemon. Chioschi are only in Catania. Nowhere else.”
“That sounds amazing!” I said. “When can we go?!”
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By the time we arrived at Nick’s parents’ house it was late afternoon and we hadn’t had lunch. There were two types of mozzarella di bufala that Nick had picked up in Campania (the epicenter of the mozzarella world): treccie, braided pieces, firm throughout; and nodini, medium size balls with nearly liquid centers. There was also tomato and basil. The tomatoes were so firm I worried they'd taste unripe, but they were as sweet as the ones you get during a New York summer.
As soon as we were done with lunch, Nick said, “Let’s go. We’ll take the kids.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“To chiosco,” he said.
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What if you could live in a town teeming with outdoor kiosks that sell the most refreshing and colorful beverages you’ve ever had? Imagine that these drinks only exist at the kiosks of your town, that they are nowhere else, that some of them are hundreds (as in, 200+) years old, and that some are closed all day and open most of the night but for others the schedule is reversed.
The town with these places is Catania — a city of many unique foods and beverages — and the drinks I've described are served at chioschi (Italian pronunciation is kee-oh-sko, it means 1 kiosk; or kee-oh-ski,which means 2 or more kiosks). Only locals go.
Behold my favorite drink, the completo — white as an Oreo's filling and made with almond syrup, anise extract, hand-squeezed lemon juice, and cool seltzer from a built-in tap. The anise arrives as a mere hint, but it's just enough to defend against almond overkill. The lemon brings it all back to earth with refreshing zing. And, as with all of the drinks at chiosco — the strength of the seltzer leaves you pumped and ready for a workout at the gym. Or at least another bibite (beverage).
While beer and coffee are also options at chiosci (and smoothies and Nutella shakes), these drink spots are about soda — sodas that make Coca Cola, Fanta, or even the fancy bottled sodas you can find in the US taste like factory stuff. Drink a manderino and despite its high sugar and artificial color (uh, green tangerine??), it tastes like natural fruit — amplified. Taste a completo and marvel at the strength of its flavors (and at the mastery of the mixer-man). Other choices include orange, tangerine, green tangerine, tamarind, lemon & salt, strawberry, chinotto, pineapple, mint, and coffee. Cost for a drink: one Euro.
By the end of the first day of our visit I was totally obsessed with these places. And by the time we returned to the US, Julia had made a "rule" that I wasn't not allowed to utter the word chiosco. Chiosco. Aha! I can write it. She's too young to access and read this.
Everywhere we drove I noticed (and photographed) kiosks, shacks, sheds, food trucks, mini pick-up trucks with crates of vegetables stacked so high they made me nervous, and newsstands. (Pointing to the different types of places I asked Nick, "Do they have chiosco drinks?" "No," he said.) When we went to bars for breakfast, I wondered why they don't — along with the standard coffee fare — also make chiosco drinks. Some of the chioschi looked like they were closed for good, boarded up to ready for the bulldozer, but when we drove past those ones at night, they were hoppin'.
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On our way out for dinner that first night, as I steered Nick’s mother’s car through Catania's narrow streets, I witnessed from drivers at every intersection agressive behavior similar to that of the man in the Rome airport: they came at us from all directions and acted as though they would not stop even though they had the stop signs and the red lights. A nonsensical game of chicken.
Also, we went through red lights — though not by choice. We were following Nick and had no map, no phone, no address. If he did it, we had to do it. The next day I asked him to please stop going through red lights. He informed me that those were “pedestrian red lights.”
“How can you tell they’re for pedestrians? All the lights look the same,” I asked. “Don’t worry, I know,” he said. “Yeah, but how do I know?” I asked him. “You don’t,” he said.
And this is the intrigue of Sicily. You have to know stuff. If not for the generosity of our host, I doubt I'd have stopped at a single chiosco during our visit. I also wouldn't have known where to get the best rice balls or pizza or octopus salad because none of the top spots were obvious. But these encounters did occur and it is my duty to report on them here. This piece is about chiosco — and I've made a video featurette for your viewing pleasure. To watch it, click on the photo (below) of Julia and her friend Luce.
Next installment: Catania 2: Pescheria (Fish Market)
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Click photo above for video about the chisochi of Catania.
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Blu-express Airlines offers inexpensive flights to Catania from many cities in Europe.
The two chiosci featured in the video "Chiosco" are both located at Piazza Vittorio Emanuele III, in Catania.
[The following report — Pizzacentric's first guest-written piece — was submitted by Monty DiPietro, a Canadian-born writer/editor who has been living in Japan for several years. His initial contact described a Japanese man who studied pizza-making in a city, moved to an arts community in the country, built a pizza oven on a mountain, put his dining room up a tree (transporting his pies upward by dumbwaiter!), and grows his own organic veggies. What a perfect story for Pizzacentric!]
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At the southern tip of the Japanese archipelago, just beyond Koga Mountain in Okinawa's Nakijin district, a one lane dirt road forks off Route 72. Follow it for five miles, serpentining through the dense forest, rising higher and higher up the mountainside, and you'll find a little piece of pizza heaven on earth.
The brainchild of Keisuke Haketa, Beach Rock Pizzeria is a simple wooden hut, built around a brick pizza oven and emblazoned with inspirational phrases such as "a weak fire reveals a weak spirit," and "a poorly-formed pizza reveals a poorly-formed mind." Some 20 feet up a ladder on the adjacent pine tree and you're in the open-air dining room, which seats 12.
The improbable restaurant stands beside a Mongolian tent bar and a row of rental teepees in the quirky Beach Rock Village camping retreat. Think hippies, without weed. (Rollover above photo to see Haketa's pizza team.)
Beach Rock's signature pizza is built on a hand-tossed spring water crust that is thin and crispy in the center and chewy on the perimeter. It features a tangy tomato sauce topped with fresh green peppers and eggplant (vegetables grown organically on-site) and topped with a serviceable Swiss mozzarella.
Yes, Japan has pizza. Plenty of it. But a glance at Pizza Hut's Japanese website suggests the American chain's Asian offspring has little in common with its parent. Pies resemble abstract paintings, piled with squid and corn and latticed with mayonnaise. Not good, and not cheap -- even Domino's basic pepperoni, sausage and mushroom pizza costs about US$38.
The son of a Yokohama fisherman, Haketa, 24, knew there was more to pizza than what the chains were offering. Haketa came to Okinawa in 2010 to study pie-making with his sensei, Tsuyoshi Ozaki, whom Haketa describes as "a man who can do anything, especially make pizza."
For six months Haketa trained, in the style of a Zen Buddhist, waking at dawn to gather wood, lighting the fire ceremoniously, rolling the dough and tending his garden while chanting with his kitchen staff. The results are impressive.
"A good pizza is made with simple and pure ingredients," says Haketa. "It's not so difficult to make a good pizza. But to make a great pizza, it takes passion. That's the difference!"
This summer, Haketa leaves Beach Rock Pizzeria in the hands of student Yumi Sakata, to go off and pursue his dream -- working in an orphanage, teaching the children how to be pizza chefs.
Beach Rock's pizzas are priced from US$12-16. Sorry, no mayonnaise. The Village offers accommodation in yurt or teepee, or guests can bring their own tent.
Beach Rock Village, Nakijin, Okinawa, Japan. Tel: 0980-56-1126
Map Beach Rock Village. Beach Rock Village website (click "CAFÉ & BAR" for restaurant info) (It's in Japanese).
In November 2010 I posted a story about the rice balls at Joe's Superette in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. In the piece I interviewed Pizzacentric's Sicilian Critic, Nick Nicolosi, to see how he thought they measured up against those served in Sicily — the birthplace of rice balls.
Nick found Joe's balls "interesting" and overall pretty good, but commented that the rice was overcooked, the meat was not in the center, and that they were too small.
While rice balls are not part of my regular eating agenda, I am interested in discovering how foods in the US differ from their Italian counterparts. So while visiting Nick's hometown of Catania this April, he brought me to Savia — a standing-room restaurant (with a formal "tea room" upstairs) — where, he assured me, the rice balls are primo-quality.
They were different from (and better than) any I've found in the US — including at Joe's Superette. The ragù rice ball at Savia — shaped like a pine cone — has a breaded and fried exterior with a tomato sauce and rice filling (the rice is, in fact, cooked al dente), and substantial pieces of "ragù meat" (carefully trimmed first-choice beef course-ground into a minsé with onion, tomato, and spices) in the center. Bites include a stretchy string of melted Emmental cheese that doesn't at all overwhelm the main flavors — but instead adds to the fun!
If I lived in Catania, I would eat rice balls often — but not too often: I'm sure they pack a few calories.
Click the above photo for a short video from my visit to Savia. I love that the atmosphere and counter-staff's apparel are rather formal. Could an authentic Rice Ball-eria and tea room thrive in New York?!
[Note: In NYC, rice balls are usually served as an snack food in corner pizzerias. Watch the video only if you're interested in rice balls or in seeing this food in its more formal Sicilian setting — or if you find it interesting to watch two guys talking about and eating rice balls while standing up.]
Map Savia (call ahead for days/hours).
I asked Nick Nicolosi, Pizzacentric's Sicilian food critic, to define sfincione. In New York, it's pizza with a spongy soft crust topped with sautéed minced onions, fried breadcrumbs, grated cheese (Pecorino Romano, not mozzarella), tomato sauce, and (usually) anchovy. Aware that American pizza can differ from its Italian counterparts, I wanted to know if our sfincione is actually Sicilian.
(His answer — "Sicilian? No! I mean not from Catania. Maybe from Palermo." — touches upon the extreme localism of Italian food origins. Even within Sicily, a volcanic island two miles from the toe of the boot, foods vary town to town.)
"In Catania," he said, "it's a kind of 'dick' with rice and honey. Sfincione means something soft." He sent me a link showing Catanian sfincione. Looks good, right? But it's not pizza.
"In Palermo," he added, "it's a soft pizza with the ingredients that you mentioned." He embedded a YouTube video in which a Palermo grandma (she calls herself "lanonnadiinternet") shows off her homemade sfincione:
"Are Catania and Palermo rival towns?" I asked Nick.
"Sure. Are you kidding me?" he wrote back.
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The grandma of the video uses caciocavallo on her sfincione. So does Veloce, a Sicilian pizzeria in the East Village (no slices). Most NYC pizzerias that serve this style (there aren't many) use Pecorino Romano and often leave off the anchovies to appease American taste buds.
But it's sfincione's soft and spongy crust that differs from that of other pizzas around town. During a recent expedition to 15 downtown pizzerias, one diner at Famous Ben's of Soho remarked that his slice of "Onion Sauce and Bread Crumbs" (the menu lists it under the heading "Palermo") was lighter than he thought it would be — and not doughy at all.
Papa Mike's in Bensonhurst makes a formidable sfincione without anchovies. While there, I met three high school girls out celebrating their basketball victory in a church tournament. They'd eaten at Papa Mike's many times but had never tried the sfincione, so I bought them a slice. They said they liked it, but upon finishing quickly returned to dipping sticks of fried mozzarella into marinara sauce.
Request to readers: tell me your favorite spots for Palermo style sfincione (can be NYC or beyond) and I'll create/share a map.
It was a rainy Sunday and I couldn't stop thinking about sfincione.
Internet search results listed a ravioli store and a pizza shop in Bensonhurst. I first called A&L — the pizza shop.
"Whole pies only, we make them from scratch, it'll take about 40 minutes." said the guy on the phone.
So I tried the ravioli store. Melanie C.'s Yelp review of Papa Pasquale Ravioli Pasta Company's sfincione called it "wonderful" — but added that it's available on Saturdays only. I called and found out it's also served on Sundays — but they were about to close for the day.
"Any recommendations?" I asked. "Yes, there's a pizzeria at 20th Avenue and 75th Street across the street from St. Dominic's Church. Try that."
I went.
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Papa Mike's has been in business since 1971. In 2008 the owner (Mike) moved it from the original spot next door and installed a fast-cooking, flame-throwing "Wood Stone" oven — the type used in duplicate to bake pizzas and roast meats at Pulino's Bar & Pizzeria in Soho.
Nestled amongst many attractive pies (including a creamy Grandma and a Neapolitan topped with arugula) was the sfincione, of which five squares remained.
Mike's omits the anchovies — "not everyone likes them," he says — but will make a whole pie the traditional way (see Pizzacentric sfincione entry for details) if requested.
Sans anchovies, this ultra-soft pan pie imparts a tingly crunch from the fried breadcrumbs and a soft and spongy chew from its pillowy crust. The tomato and onions contribute savory notes that have me wondering why it isn't on more menus.
Old-timers from nearby private Italian social clubs sometimes order sfincione pies whole — anchovies included. When I asked Mike if he could put me in touch with some of them, he said no.
Though most places that offer sfincione are Sicilian-owned, Mike is from Naples. He also makes focaccia pizzas, Chicago-style deep dish pies, and Hawaiian style; he sells Buffalo wings, burgers and fries, and plenty of pasta choices. He told me point blank: "I'm here to please."
As I ate my square of sfincione I watched him take a fresh, bubbling grandma pie out of the oven: I had to try it. It had more topside creaminess — no skimping on the fior di latte (fresh cow's milk mozzarella) — than any grandma I've had prior. Because it's finished directly on the oven floor, I expected the bottom to be crispier than standard grandma pies — but it wasn't. I asked Mike about this. He said that because it was a slice pie and he expected to reheat it in slices, he initially undercooks it by about a minute.
Judging from the diverse flow of customers entering Papa Mike's throughout my late afternoon visit, it seems that Mike's devotion to keeping everyone happy has paid off. One man ate a bowl of pasta, another had chicken parmesan, and three high school girls had plain slices and mozzarella sticks. I asked Mike why he was there on a Sunday — and if he's always there. He told me that he works Sundays and all days because that's what his father taught him to do. This is the way, he told me, to ensure things are done right — and to stay connected with his customers.
Map Papa Mike's (call ahead for days/hours).
Stuck near Turnpike Exit 13 by the Goethals? Looking to eat pizza on the hood of your car? Craving sausage bread? Al Santillo can address these desires.
On a spring day in 2006 my wife and I were cruising the streets of Elizabeth as our daughter napped in the backseat. And there it was: Santillo's, established in 1918. Not too shabby, considering that Lombardi's — which opened in New York City in 1905 — claims to be the nations's oldest pizzeria.
But I blew it: I went in, saw no tables, no people, grabbed a free magnet, and ran out. I'm not sure if it was the quiet alley approach or the lack of tables or ambiance that scared me away, but I didn't try a thing.
Over the next four and a half years, the magnet teased me from my refrigerator door. I felt guilty for not having a slice.
Santillo's is only a couple of (high $ toll) bridges away from Brooklyn but it took me over four years to return. In October 2010 I went on Scott's Pizza Tour (Pizzacentric journal entry here), during which Scott, who grew up in Union County near Santillo's, told me that I really ought to go, that Al Santillo is a great guy, and that the pizza is excellent. I told Scott about my magnet. He was envious.
Later that month, on my way back from an appointment in central New Jersey, I returned this time to taste Santillo's baked goods.
Al and his son Nicholas were there. Al likes to talk about anything pizza related: pizza, pizza ovens, coal versus gas, baking and bread, quality control, the Santillo family history, the different eras of pizza. Scott was right: Al is awesome.
I chose a couple of squares to eat in the car (great crust, chewy well-done mozzaerella). Then Al insisted I try his sausage and cheese bread.
The pizza is fantastic and Santillo's offers many styles worthy of pizza dreams, but the sausage bread offers the true incentive for a veer off the highway.
Here's how they make it. They roll out a dough as flat as a pizza and cover it with large pieces of local Italian sausage (pork, fennel, black pepper, salt) and chunks of mozzarella. Then, Al says, they "roll it up like a gym towel" and let it rise (or, sometimes no rise — it works either way) and then it's baked 12-15 minutes in the oven at 450 degrees. The result is a soft but chewy, pleasantly greasy, meaty Italian bread. I kept my extras in the fridge and cut off slice after slice to eat cold until it was gone (sigh).
(Santillo's menu makes evident Al's love for pizza by the range of styles he offers. His pies that are titled by the year and type. The "1948 Style Tomato Pie w/ Grated Cheese (No Mozzarella)", the "1957 Extra Thin 14" Round", the "1960 Style Less Cheese More Sauce", and the "1990 Style Soft and Thin Crust American Style," to name a few.)
Map Santillo's. Santillo's website (call ahead for days and hours).
In a neighborhood full of food shops with pedigreed ingredients and high prices ($25 plain pizza or $18 cheeseburger anyone?), one place—Joe's Superette—stands out as the weirdest. It's a grocery with, like, nothing for sale. Don't expect "vegetables" and "fruits," just because the sign says so. Inside, there's a letter board menu with a list of deli meat sandwiches (they do, in fact, have these), but entirely absent from all signage is its most popular item: rice balls.
You have to know.
They're crisp on the outside and creamy in the middle. The prosciutto variety is especially rich and satisfying. Have a picnic on a cold winter's day! These rice balls work wonders when it comes to staying warm.
A few years ago, my Sicilian friend, Nick Nicolosi, tried some rice balls from a pizzeria in the neighborhood. He thought they were horrible. Granted, he's not easily impressed—especially when it comes to native Sicilian foods. According to Nick, my favorite granita in Rome is horrible, and only in Sicily do they make granita or rice balls the right way.
So when he was here recently I brought him to a few food spots—just to see if he would approve of anything.
And so here's Chapter One: Nick the Sicilian, on the topic of rice balls. (Click above photo for video.)
Map Joe's Superette (call ahead for days/hours).
[N.B. 5/18/11: I've learned that Joe's Superette has closed for good. The Lost New York blog has posted a story about its rice ball enlaced history and ultimate closing.]
[N.B. 2 5/21/11: Flowers and written notes outside of Joe's Superette. The owner, Leo Coldanato, passed away. Many afficionados — myself included — will miss Leo and those little, fantastic rice balls he made famous. Story from Brooklyn Paper.]
A few years ago I started a different blog, called the Berman Food Mall. But my energy for regular writing fizzed out after a few entries. The concept was: imagine all of your very favorite foods and restaurants -- no matter where in the world they actually are -- together under one roof. Impossible? Probably. But what an alluring piece of real estate it would be!
The Berman Food Mall.
Now Eataly, a sprawling Italian mega-store chain has opened its first US location in New York (in September 2010). Here, one can experience a physical, real life version of the Food Mall -- but with Italian food only. With over 50,000 square feet, Eataly New York weaves its 14 restaurants into aisle upon aisle, counter upon counter of Italian specialty foods for sale.
The store's layout is both daunting and thrilling. In my first few visits, I have chosen to focus on only a few departments: the multitude variety of canned and jarred tomatoes, the meats and poultry from Pat La Frieda, and the pizza restaurant.
After reading up on La Frieda, I decided to purchase several pounds of their beef for hamburgers to serve at my daughter's upcoming birthday party. My assessment: without question, the quality of these nutrient-rich burgers was many notches above the stuff available at other stores. My guests raved about them, too -- and I'm pretty sure they weren't just being polite. But despite the best intentions of all involved, I was left with about 1⅓ pounds of extra beef.
So the next day I called Kristin, my semi-vegetarian wife, at work, and asked her if she would eat spaghetti & meatballs for dinner. She said yes!
Next up, the dual purpose phone call to Iowa. It was Kristin's Great Aunt Julia's 97th birthday, and it had been a while since she and I had spoken. We chatted for a while -- about the family, her health, etc. -- and then I got to the burning topic: her recipe for meatballs. She gave it up!
Mix together: a little over a pound of ground beef, a cup each of bread crumbs and grated parmesan, some garlic powder and sweet basil, one egg, a little milk, salt, and pepper. Brown them in a pan, add them to a tomato sauce, and simmer for one hour.
I tweaked it slightly. Instead of garlic powder, I sautéed three cloves of minced garlic and used them along with the oil; by "sweet basil" she had meant dried basil flakes -- I substituted chopped fresh basil; I felt it needed two eggs instead of one; and a "little milk" turned out to be about ½ a cup.
I cannot remember her meatballs well enough to know if my rendition tasted anything like hers. But the entire time I spent making them, AJ was on my mind. Arthritis now prevents her from chopping, and she no longer makes meatballs. She also can't fry up her incredible late summer peppers. Boy, was her shit good!
Now, for all I know, the earth may be out of balance forever, all because AJ can no longer cook. So my meatballs were a tribute to AJ. I'd better call her about it soon just to let her know that I love her, and that her meatball recipe is totally top notch.
Map Eataly New York (call ahead for days/hours).
Earlier this week I checked out the Patsy's Party, where the Harlem original celebrated 77 years of existence by rolling back prices to 1933. Nothing on the menu, steak included, was more than 80¢, and as a result, the line was hours long just to get inside.
The highlight however, was the FDNY vs. the NYPD vs. EMS pizza eating contest. Who could eat the most pizza in 8 minutes? (Scroll from above picture to see who won!)
But one doesn't need to wait until next year to eat affordably at Patsy's. A whole pie, at $12 (for eat in) or $11 (for takeaway) is one of the best deals in the city! With an unbelievable super thin crust and a bright tomato sauce that retains its sweetness thanks to a super quick cooking time (~2 minutes at 900°), this pizza would be a bargain at double the price!
Map Patsy's (call ahead for days/hours)
The waiter: "So where you guys from?" ('Cause you're not from around here.)
Welcome to the Bronx.
A couple of weeks ago I headed up there with some old friends, the brothers C. and J., in search of some good pizza. J., who was in town from CA for only a few days, deserves special accolades for his willingness to come along. What a sport! Surely New York City possesses more tempting things to do than to trek nearly an hour to its northernmost borough for pizza.
In order to get the most from our effort, we endeavored to visit three pizza places for our extended Friday lunch.
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First stop was Schuylerville for a visit to Louie & Ernie's a beloved pizzeria that originally opened in 1947. Located on the ground floor of a cute little house in a clean, apparently-working class area -we felt like we'd stumbled into another world.
Louie & Ernie's pizza packs a bigger crunch than the average New York pie. The bottom was dusted, not heavily, with cornmeal (or possibly semolina). The tomato sauce was a little watery, but in a good way: the sensation was not unlike eating fresh tomatoes. The sausage, for which Louie and Ernie's is known, was very good: rather large crumbles that elegantly floated atop the rest.
The above photos (scroll to see #2) are from Louie and Ernie's.
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The next stop was Coal's, a restaurant specializing in grilled pizza, which opened in 2004. Located near a hospital in an otherwise sparsely populated neighborhood, we had the unfortunate experience of noticing a dead cat on the roadside after our meal.
Buzz kill.
The pizza, however was very good. C., who has been to Al Forno (famous grilled pizza in Providence, RI) thought that the thin crust was perfectly cooked. It was crispy, not crunchy. We wondered if the sauce, which tasted like a gourmet jarred sauce (picture Rao's or similar) was actually homemade, but the bartender/server said that it absolutely was.
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Our final stop was Mario's, an Italian restaurant on Arthur Avenue - an historic Italian street very worth visiting. At this point C. and J. were both done with pizza (was it the cat?!). Mario's serves whole pies only, and while I waited for my order (small plain, to-go), they each had a couple lemon ices.
I discovered, while visiting Mario's, something far more interesting than its pizza: that Mario's may be the oldest NYC restaurant that has offered pizza from the start. Lombardi's, which claims to be the oldest, was closed from 1986-1994, and it is not at the original address. Totonno's opened in 1924. But Mario's opened its doors in 1919.
Today, the place is an old school Italian restaurant with a whole menu of dishes -- but pizza has been deemphasized since the 1960s. It does not even appear on the dinner menu. The restaurant will, however, serve it to sit-down customers if they also order (much pricier) entreées.
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The Bronx really seems a world apart from NYC. In Brooklyn -- or at least Brooklyn near the river crossings -- life unfolds in the shadow of Manhattan and in many regards is an extension of the same high rents and cool people. (Or is it the other way around?!)
When asked his overall impressions of the Bronx, C. noted that there was nothing at all trendy about the place. No doubt he meant that as a high compliment!
Map Louie & Ernie's; Map Coal's; Map Mario's (call ahead for days/hours).
The other day, when I visited John's Pizza on Bleecker Street, it was easy to decide what to have. Co-owner Peter, Jr. had told me that besides plain, his two favorite toppings are sausage and anchovies. My friend M. and I split a small pie with half of each of those. The anchovies were a treat, both quality-wise and because I rarely order them. (M., in fact, preferred them over the sausage!)
And while sausage is also not an everyday food for me, I do especially like it when it one or two subtle flavors (in addition to the requisite pork (or chicken or turkey) flavor) shine through. In the case of the Faicco's sausage served on the pizza at John's, this refinement arrives in the form of fennel. It pops up approximately every other bite and brings a bit of savory to the otherwise cheesy and tomatoey affair of very good coal oven pizza.
Ever since John's began offering sausage as a topping (probably in the 1950s), they have sourced it from nearby Faicco's Italian Specialties - only one block away. (John's, having opened in 1929, is one of America's oldest pizza restaurants. Decades ago neighbors referred to it as "the pizza store.")
Faicco's sells many varieties of sausages, butchered and sliced meats, cheeses, sandwiches, and other top-notch Italian food products. The fennel sausage is made daily from pork shoulder, fennel seeds (Egyptian imported), salt, and pepper.
New York is quite blessed with a multitude of very fine pork stores - businesses that are usually not only about sausage and meat, but generally feature other extraordinary foods. The parsley and cheese sausage at Anthony's, which was once on my corner (but is now a bank), was my personal favorite. Thankfully, I still have Esposito's nearby (aside from great sausages and cuts of meat, they make an excellent homemade tuna salad and an eggplant parmesan that is one of the best I've ever had - whoever said vegetarians can't shop at pork stores?!!).
And in Greenwich Village, Faicco's remains a real gem of a shop. Originally established in 1900 on Thompson Street, Eduardo Faicco, an immigrant from Sorrento, moved his shop to Bleecker Street in the 1940s.
Click the photo above (of coiled and pinwheeled chicken sausage) to navigate a few more photos from my recent visit to Faicco's. Or better yet, stop by Faicco's for a properly made Italian hero, or a pound or two of excellent homemade sausage.
Map Faicco's (two locations); Map John's Pizza (four locations) (call ahead for days/hours).
What an awesome sight: beautiful rectangular pizzas resting atop table after table at Adrienne's Pizza Bar in Lower Manhattan!
There's a lot to love about Adrienne's - not the least of which are the rectangular Grandma-style pizzas that they feature. These pies, which are constructed on a thin crust and cooked in sheet pans, may bring back fond memories of Sunday suppers past for many Italian-Americans. With sweet and chunky tomatoes, a sufficient but not oozy amount of cheese, and a crust that is pliant but crispy near the edges, the Grandma is a style of pizza that, until Adrienne's, had not been afforded the full-service restaurant status it deserves.
Adrienne's Grandma pie, because it is made with especially high quality fresh ingredients, ranks several notches above other Grandma pizzas that I've tried - mostly in very good pizza shops in Brooklyn. (Adrienne's takes its inspiration from the Grandma's apparent popularity on Long Island.) At Adrienne's, you can taste that the tomatoes are naturally sweet and that no sugar has been added.
But the pizza alone is not the only reason to visit Adrienne's. The restaurant is located on a picturesque cobblestone pedestrian street in Manhattan's financial district - a street that belongs, at least visually, more to Europe than to New York. When I visited earlier this week, it was raining lightly; but on pleasant days this block of Stone Street, which offers al fresco dining at picnic tables from many restaurants, fills up with hoards of Wall Street area workers and tourists alike - making the setting, like Adrienne's Grandma, a true sight to behold!
Map Adrienne's (call ahead for days/hours).
Gerry Pappalardo is passionate about his tomatoes. But rather than going with premium San Marzano Italian tomatoes (or cheaper domestic need-sugar varieties), Gerry discovered tomatoes, canned from California, that he believes are perfectly sweet and ideal for his sauce-forward pies.
His other place, Joe and Pat's, is a highly esteemed and well-known Staten Island pizza restaurant that has been open since 1960. It offers pies that boast an super-super thin Staten Island-style crust, a healthy slather of their addictive vibrant-red tomato sauce, and ample (but not too much) cheese. The pizzas are visually striking because the cheese melts into confined circular areas and the sauce brightens the palette with plenty of solo surface space. The crust, while it may not elicit awards for transcendental air pockets or that oft-desired perfect pillow-to-crunch ratio, is nevertheless addictive in its simplicity: it functions as the perfect support for the simple and refined flavors of the cheese, the sauce, and perhaps some toppings.
Alas, Joe and Pat's is not particularly accessible for people who do not live on Staten Island. Even with a car, one must fork over a pretty penny just to drive over the Verrazano Bridge. I would guess that the vast majority of Joe and Pat's business comes from (Staten) Islanders, and this is okay with the owners - judging from how very busy the place seems to be.
Enter Pier 76. Opened by Gerry Pappalardo, along with his son Jeremy, and his son's friend, Joe Guastavino, Pier 76 offers pizza made the same way as Joe and Pat's, less than five minutes walk from the St. George Terminal on Staten Island.
A free boat ride to great pizza - why not?!!! Aboard the ferry, save your appetite and skip the snack bar (tempting as it is with its vintage 70's formica decor). (You could have a beer.)
Pier 76 has two parts: a slice side, and a separate sit down restaurant, complete with a bar, widescreen televisions, and a full Italian menu.
I haven't had a chance to sample anything beyond pizza and salad - but I can definitely recommend the "Margarita" version of the standard pie. It's the same as regular, but it features fresh mozzarella and basil leaves.
I spoke with Gerry the other day, and he remarked on the sauce and its origins, and on growing up eating homemade pizza for breakfast.
(Click above photo for audio slideshow featuring Gerry Pappalardo + sounds from the Staten Island Ferry.) (You may need to pop up the volume a little until I can figure out how to make it sound better.)
Map Pier 76 (call ahead for days/hours).