Once, when I was nineteen years old, I drove over three hours, to Cherry Hill, NJ, to rendezvous with a woman I met on the beach. It wasn't that I lacked for female companionship in the neighborhood, but, this girl was.....different. All the girls I knew spoke in the coarse patois of the schoolyard, had crazy fathers, and were named Maria. This girl was blonde, was fond of candles, and had mosquito netting over her bed.
Pizza can be like that.
The pizza from the neighborhood is familiar, like an old lover. There are no secrets or surprises. So when I dropped by Louie and Ernie's Pizza, in the Bronx, I got what I expected. I got a damn good pizza. The crust is thin, very thin, and the sauce is sweet and tasty. It can be inconsistent, and I always hold out for a fresh pie, straight from the oven, rather than taking a slice that's been sitting. If I have to mark them down for anything, it would be that the cheese can sometimes be a bit soupy and a tad greasy, in conjunction with a soggier crust. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. Given that this pizza is within 5 minutes of my house, I'm not complaining.
So why then, on Day 2, do I decide to drive clear into the bowels of Brooklyn for my pizza fix? Well, for the same reason I drove to Cherry Hill, those many years ago. I need something different. I've heard for a long time that there's an old man making surreal pies at this place, and I've tried many times to get there, but something always came up, postponing my date with destiny. Determined this time, I set out for parts unknown, armed with a full tank of gas, and mapquest directions.
Getting around the city is easy, but a Bronx - Brooklyn trek is no small task. First, there's a bridge, then the LIE, the traffic choked BQE, and an alphabet soup of streets before we come upon Ave J. All this takes just under an hour, which was filled by my companions telling me how crazy I was to drive this far for a pizza.
We found the place, parked the car, and went inside. I will try to describe for you, from memory, what happened next. Sit back, as this will take a while.
Upon entering, I was relieved to see that there weren't too many customers ahead of us. I'd heard horror stories about the chaos, but it appeared we'd timed our visit right. To the left, there is a counter, behind which the magic takes place. There is a man, older, from what I can tell, with his back to us, stretching a ball of dough. He doesn't look up. Another guy, much younger, asks me what I'd like. I tell him I want a regular pie, to stay. He repeats my order to the older man, who does not acknowledge it. The fixtures in the place are ancient. There's a bottle cooler in the corner that must be circa 1970, and the ovens are older than that. The old man's work station is not a sleek pizza table, but a very small area equipped with a rotary cheese grater and a square of wood.
I stand at the counter and watch the man work. He stretches the dough, slowly, methodically, and then spreads some sauce on it. The next part blew my mind. Rather than scoop some pre diced or shredded mozzarella on the pie, he reached into a bucket and pulled out an individual, fresh mozzarella, packed in water and sealed in plastic. He picked up a scissor, snipped the package open, and slowly let the water run out, into the bucket. He then took the mozzarella ball, and ran it over what appeared to be a box grater, slicing the cheese into a mound on the pie. Then, he HAND TORE each slice and place it onto the pie. He works at one speed, rarely looking up. Then he drizzles olive oil from a container he keeps at his station, all over the pie. He puts the pie in the oven, and begins again. He does not keep checking the oven, nor rotate the pie. The next time he opens the oven door, the pie is done, and he removes it to a tray just below the counter, about 12 inches from my face. I am wondering if this is my pie, but it couldn't be, because there are people ahead of me, obviously waiting. The pie looks outrageous, but he's not done. He now takes a small square of grating cheese, and drops it into the hopper of the rotary grater. He cranks it a couple of times, and a small blizzard of grated cheese floats down to a waiting pan. He turns and sprinkles the freshly grated cheese on the hot pie. I can smell it as it melts into this incredible pizza collage he's created. Still not done, he takes a bundle of fresh basil, which perfumes the entire area, and cuts it with scissors so that the pieces randomly fall on top of the pie. He cuts the pie into six pieces. Now, it is done. Someone steps in front of me and picks up his pie. I am crestfallen.
Throughout all of this, other people have entered the store. Some have shouted out orders, to nobody in particular. It didn't matter. The old man's attention was entirely focused on the one pie in front of him. So now he begins the procedure again. I figure this HAS to be my pie, until I see him dot the pie with pepperoni. The only thing keeping me from totally losing it was that I was practically hypnotized, watching this man's repetitive motions. I kept watching, and watching, as he made one pie, after another, until he turned to me, and asked, "What are you having?" I wanted to scream. I wanted to leap over the counter and just TAKE the last pie he'd made, and run off onto AVE J and eat it under the el. But I kept my composure, and responded, "I'll have a regular pie, to stay." And so now the old man's attention was on focused on MY pie. I continued watching his every move. I watched as he removed MY pie from the oven, and adorned it with a flurry of grated cheese, and snipped the fresh basil on top, and cut through the crust to yield eight perfect slices. I took it to the back of the store, where, along with my companions, we sat and let it rest. The aroma was intoxicating, and that is when I took this picture:
This was, quite simply, the best pizza I've ever eaten. I can't analyze it, but I can tell you it was cheesy without being greasy, and the sauce was the freshest and sweetest I'd ever had. Everything stayed in place, and was in perfect balance.
The crust stood at attention when held with one hand. It did not flop over. The cheese did not run, or pull away with a bite. It tasted unbelieveably delicious, and the taste stayed with me all day.
My companions took back all their taunts, and stayed quiet as they ate their slices, with stupid grins on their faces.
My friends, take a train, take a plane, walk barefoot over broken glass if you have to, but get yourself to DiFara's before this treasure disappears forever. We'll not see the likes of this again.
So what do I do to follow up the perfect pizza? Well, the next day, with memories of DiFara's fresh in my head, I needed another fix, but Brookly was out of the question. Harlem is closer, so we decide to visit Patsy's, another old favorite of mine. Here's a shot of their coal fired oven:
We order a pie, half regular, half fresh mozzarella, and it comes out quickly, maybe too quickly. The pies are terrific here, very thin crust, with portions charred by the oven.
Here was ours:
The thing about Patsy's is, there's nowhere to sit. There's a small counter where one can eat a slice standing up, but there's no room to spread a box out. So we do what we always do. We take it out to the car, find a bus stop to park in, and eat the pie in the car. To be fair, it is delicious, better than a pizza has a right to be. But on this day, with DiFara's still fresh on my brain, it doesn't measure up. Sorry.
Finally, for those individuals who believe one pizza is good as another, I took one for the team by visiting another neighborhood joint that has a big following, and a wood oven. Patricia's, in the Morris Park section of the Bronx, is more a restaurant than pizza joint, with white tablecloths, and waiters.
I went in and ordered a pizza margarita from the wood oven.
Bleh. Good, but not even very good. Nothing to elevate it. Just a pie. Ho hum.
Even my picture shows my disinterest:
oh well, can't add a picture here - maxed out - you're not missing anything
Spoiled, I guess. The only thing that saved the lunch was a bottle of Toramesca (negroamaro/cab blend) whose ripeness and alcohol bludgeoned me into submission.
All in all, a good week for pizza. A very good week
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TFS.