Pizzacentric

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’s

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.)

—

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?!).

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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 wi

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. 

*

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 t

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 w

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 y

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.

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.

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

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. 

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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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