Baker’s Dozen

72 hours in New York City and I hit 13 pizza places. It all started on a Monday afternoon. My friend George picks me up from JFK and drives directly to her favorite New York pizza spot, Totonno’s. I was a bit nervous about the whole trip, having now been more than 10 years past the traveling days of my youth, and I chatted incessantly with George and took in very little of the surrounding endless landscape of buildings, businesses, streets and cars. When we find Totonno’s, we find it closed. I learned a lot of new things in New York and one of the things is that businesses, at least pizza joints, don’t often feel the need to post their hours. They just open and close by some internal clock they each own. So we head down the road and end up asking the kid at Neptune Pizza for 2 cheese slices. Eating the slices in the freezing cold while walking back to the car I knew I had landed someplace other than Florida. A certainly crispy crust, the sweet tomato sauce, the thinness of the slice… all welcomed me to the nation’s pizza capitol. Even though I scored that slice a 6, I was truly happy.

It was an Italian painter that got my lazy butt on the plane to NY, Georgio Morandi in cahoots with my wife Caroline. She provided the idea and he provided the inspiration. Only 10 days ago I hung my own show of new paintings in my own pizza joint, so why not head up to eat some pizza and see some art? I really have no excuse not to go. If my life is pizza and art, then New York is a pilgrimage I should make often. Having been only once before, when I was about 19 or 20, and wandered aimlessly for 2 days taking in the strangeness of it all, it was certainly time to get back there as a real adult and explore my 2 favorite things.

It became apparent to me after that first slice that pizza would be my breakfast lunch and dinner for the next 3 days. I hadn’t planned to go up there and live some sort of pizza marathon but as soon as the reality set in that my wife was not by my side to talk sense into me, I was giddy with the plan that had just formed. Pizza. Everyday. Pizza.

Once we hit George’s neighborhood, she parked the Astrovan a few blocks away from her flat at her special spot and so there we were walking past pizza joints left and right. I stopped in at Vinny Vella’s in Williamsburg and already I had tasted a 7.

So I get settled in at the cozy warm apartment and chat with George’s fiancé Scout, and take a tour of George’s studio and make a plan for dinner with my good friend Liz. Fortunately I have good friends. Without them I would not feel inspired to brave the big city. But because of them I felt at home in such an overwhelming place… George has a statue restoration business so her studio has a certain air of the divine, and Liz had determined to take me to Grimaldi’s, a popular spot under the Brooklyn Bridge.

Now, it’s past my usual dinnertime and essentially all I’ve had all day is 2 cheese slices, and I am hungry. Liz picks me up in her car and before we know it we are there. I am told about the usual long lines to get in, the possible hour wait… I am prepared for anything. If they can wait an hour and a half for my pizza, I can wait an hour to get a pie from this famous New York joint. But to our delight and surprise we walked right in to a table. We figured, “It’s a Monday night, it’s cold as shit… That’s the right time to come.” The place was crowded and I concentrated on Liz and catching up with her. I took a snapshot of the dining room but I wasn’t really paying attention to the kind of ovens and the details of the open-air kitchen. I’m just about as happy as can be to be sitting under the Brooklyn Bridge ordering pie with an old friend. Man, that’s living.

We ordered an 18” pie with pepperoni and sausage. It was a delight. The crust was crispy with an average amount of char; the pepperoni’s looked like they were sliced thickly in-house. The sausage was crumbled but definitely fresh and the cheese was that fresh mozzarella that looks white. The sauce is a rich and simple red… We went to town literally on that pie and when it was over I had experienced a 9.

I got to bed early and slept in a bit and slept pretty darn good for being on an Ikea couch in the middle of New York. In the morning I called another old friend and pizza maker, Patty, who doesn’t live in NY but happened to be visiting her dad in the city for a couple days and so we made a plan to meet over a slice or two for lunch. I picked out 2 places that were close to each other near Greenwich Village and we set to meet at Washington Square. I got lost trying to get to Washington Square because I detoured to find another pizza place that was supposedly close to my subway stop called Artichoke Pizza. One of my pizza cooks, Jake, had been to NY a couple weeks previous and told me that Artichoke’s was the best pizza he found. Well, Jake knows good pizza and takes his job seriously so I figured that was a place I would have to find. After walking the wrong way for far too long and then actually later finding Artichoke’s, it was only 10am and they didn’t open until 11 and so I walked further to find Patty at our designated spot. Patty and I somehow managed to meet, despite some back and forth on the phone searching for each other, and we set off to find Famous Joe’s Pizza. I didn’t have good directions so we walked quite a ways too far and doubled back to realize we had passed it 20 minutes earlier. Famous Joe’s, as it was called online, was just called Joe’s and that’s about how average it tasted. It was good, but it was a 6. Just a block away was another place that had a high rating online, No. 28. No. 28 doesn’t open until noon we learn, not from a sign on the door, but from a lady inside. So we find a nearby park bench and sit and talk and wait and then arrive back to order our pie. This was sit down place and slices were not on the menu. We ordered a small cheese, but this type pizza is almost always referred to as “margherita.” It was okay, sweet tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, and a semi crispy crust. This was the kind of place where you order a Coke and you get a 12-ounce can and it costs $3. Now, it’s New York and I understand the reasons for this, but the pizza was only a 6.5. By this time I am starting to understand the essence of NY pie… crispy thin crust, simple fresh tomato sauce (but not too much), fresh mozzarella, and a couple basil leaves. This is what they’re all trying to do it seems. They are all similar in a lot of ways… good, but similar.

From there we went to the Met. Patty decided to come along because her dad had actually seen the Morandi show and told her how impressive it was. Boy, was I ever excited to even glimpse the show from afar. Moments later, there I was, standing in front of the original paintings of my favorite painter… and they were perfect. Everything about them was perfect. Every single one I loved for different reasons. They are all so good that it’s even hard for me to pick a favorite, but I did. We looked at the paintings… I copied some quotes from the walls into my small journal, and then we went to the modern wing to look at some great paintings there. I saw a few of my other favorite painter, Guston, and plenty of Van Gogh and Picasso and Braque. After that Patty left and I went back and paid 7 bucks for the audio extra to the Morandi show. I listened to the commentary there and kept looking at the paintings until the place closed. That’s a show I won’t soon forget.

I called George when I got onto the Met steps to plan an outing for pizza. She opted to find a place in the neighborhood so I headed back that way. I stopped halfway back and went and found Artichoke’s again. I had learned it was near a subway stop and now I knew its location it was easy to get off and grab a cheese slice. There was a short line. It was sweet and crispy and slightly burnt like all the others but better. It was crispier, saucier and more burnt but so good. I gave it an 8.5.

George and I met at Fornino’s in Williamsburg. A small skinny place with great lights and ambiance. There were a lot of interesting pies on the menu and we ordered one with proscuito, shitakes and a few kinds of cheeses I think. It was good. I gave it an 8. For all the toppings it was still on the bland side. It was burnt all around the edges like all the pies I saw. I should have given my disclaimer from the beginning of this story: I love pizza but I am a sucker for a complex sauce. I like some spices and some spiciness in a slice of pizza. I understand the simplicity of the gig. I appreciate the simplicity, but I still think a simple cheese slice with some flavor is the bomb. But by this time I get it. I get the New York pizza thing and I like it. Simple, elegant, perfect food, pizza. Back at George’s, I mapped out the next day’s 3 pizza stops: Two Boots, Lombardi’s and DiFara’s.

It was this night, Tuesday night, that I talked to my friend Jody on the phone and solidified plans I had made previously with another old employee, Joy, about meeting Wednesday night for pizza at Roberta’s. Joy said it was the Satchel’s of New York so we were calling around to a few friends to meet there Wednesday at 6:30. Jody is a guy I miss a lot. He says such funny and clever stuff right off the cuff.. Anyway, I told him I had been to 7 pizza places so far and he says right back, “I wish I was in your side-car.” Who says that? Who comes up with “I wish I was in your side-car?” Jody, that’s who.

Wednesday comes. I have a nice late solid sleep. Then I shower and dress and head toward Chinatown. I’m looking for Two Boots but the address I have must be wrong. I have 348 Grand but it’s not there. I wander. I sulk. I end up at Vic’s pizza. Vic’s is an everyday every corner sort of place with one big bonus, Yoohoo’s. I get a sausage slice and a Yoohoo. The sausage is thin sliced rounds, nice. The pizza’s pretty good, a 6.5, but the Yoohoo really made it for me. I ask the guy at Vic’s about Two Boots and he sends me down the street. I find Two Boots; it’s 384, not 348. I chug the Yoohoo as the rain starts to sprinkle down on me and I jaywalk over to this bright and cheerful new pizza joint. Two Boots has a small dining room and great décor. It’s cute, friendly, and cheerful. I like it. The guy has a bunch of pre-made pies ready and I choose one with bar-b-q chicken on it. I take bites as the door closes behind me and I realize I’ve made a mistake. There’s no sauce on the pie and there’s some green stuff I don’t like. “What is that? Wasabi? Green onions?” I take 2 more small bites and realize this is not for me. I ditch that slice and head back for a cheese slice. Much better. Finally, a slice with some spicy sauce. It’s good. I like the crispy corn meal crust. I give it an 8.

So Vic’s was a bonus and now I’m off to Lombardi’s. Legend has it; Lombardi’s was the first pizza place in America. I arrive to scaffolding around the building, as is the case all over the city. There’s a banner hanging, “Forget the scaffolding, you’re here for the pizza!” So true. So true. Although there are no hours posted I am told by someone inside that they don’t open until 11:30. What’s up with all these places? Opening at 11:30, opening at noon?… this is New York, shouldn’t they all be open 24 hours? Anyway, it’s 11:20 so I sit on the bench outside and wait and then here comes a guy walking up to the door… he’s got two older ladies with him and he says to them, “The place will be opening in a few minutes, but let’s just go in and look at some pictures.” While he’s saying this I am reading his t-shirt, “New York City Pizza Tours”… Hey, why didn’t I know about this?

Inside I get a seat and another single guy gets a seat at the table in front of mine. Meanwhile the pizza tour guy is talking all about photos and Lombardi’s and coal ovens and then the ladies are taken into the kitchen… later I find out that there are a couple tables in the kitchen, but I’m still stuck staring at some dude’s back who is sitting at the table in front of me. Lombardi’s does not do slices so that poor fella and me each order 14” pies. And that poor fella and me are both tourists who will be out on the town all day so we both just leave our half eaten pizzas for the servers to throw away. I’m sorry, but if you are the oldest and best pizza joint in America shouldn’t you make slices for the poor fellas of the world?

I spent $20 on this pizza and ate one third of it. It’s a shame but I had already had 2 slices and I was not going to carry this around all day… Anyway, the pizza was good. It was the hardest to score so far… the crust was close to perfection, perfectly cooked, perfectly crispy. The taste is what fell short of perfection. There was still the lack of flavor in the crust and the sauce. I understand the simplicity of pizza, even more so after a visit to New York, but I will tie Lombardi’s to Grimaldi’s with a 9. I wish me and the other loner could have split a pie but people just do not talk to other strangers in NY. Sad.

Chinatown was my next stop to pick up something for the kids but I stopped short when a lady handed me a card that said “foot rub 12 minutes $10.” I looked up and an Asian woman begged me to step into her shop. I was walking about half speed by this point. I had walked so much in the wrong shoes that my ankles were blown out, my feet were screaming. I opted for the 18 minutes for $15 but after I paid the shop owner, the other Chinese ladies in the shop were screaming “tips, tips her” and so I gave the lady who did the massage $5. It was a nice massage but my feet and ankles did not improve as I had hoped.

Basically a lot happens in the next few hours. I stroll up and down Canal Street looking for something for the kids and find a couple little things… I take the train uptown to the MOMA and see tons of great art… I walk about five hundred miles between train stops and destinations… I am now walking at quarter speed and I finally find the Q train that is supposed to take me out to Avenue J to DiFara’s. Liz had said I had to go to DiFara’s Pizza. I had read about old man DiFara and felt compelled to check this place out. I was so happy to sit down on that train but little did I know I’d be on there for about fifteen years trying to get out to get a slice.

painting by Philip Guston

I arrive at DiFara’s. It’s raining. I’m about to cry from exhaustion. I am at least a million miles from anything familiar. Everyone around me has on yamika’s. I step into the biggest dive looking joint you’ve ever seen, particleboard walls and an old man cooking pizzas. As soon as I stepped in I felt warm. This was a nice place. The old man was a kind genius. I was happy. I was home here. A couple was making out 10 feet away at one of the 3 tables… the old man was taking a pie out and putting it in a box. I love this man. I loved his pizza.

“Hey. How are you? You know, I have a pizza place in Florida,“ I tell this stranger who seems like my dad now, …” and if I get just a bit of black on the crust the people complain… how do you do it? How do you get away with that?” I ask as if I’ve been coming in here since I was 7. “I don’t listen to those people.” He says as if it’s an answer I should have known. “I just make the pizza like it’s supposed to be made.” He tells me and I believe him because you can just tell he’s the king of pizza. “What do you have your ovens at?” I ask. “700 degrees. Most people keep them at 500 but they dry out that way.” Wow. Not only does this man turn his ovens up more than 200 degrees more than I would recommend, but he has stacked 3 ovens on top of each other and shows me the boxes he stands on to service the top oven. I always wanted to have an extra oven but never figured out how we’d get in that top one. This guy has a couple tomato can boxes upturned on the floor and he sweeps and mops around them every night you can tell. He simply steps on the boxes if he needs that third oven. I am now in the presence of brilliance. I get a cheese slice. It’s FOUR DOLLARS, the most expensive I have come across. It’s a 9.75. Holy scars in the hands of Jesus, it’s a 9.75. It’s not burnt like the one pictured here. If it was I might have scored it lower and I might have been wrong to do that, but it was great. Saucy, sumptuous, crispy and awesome. I stumbled across the street to Walgreen’s for some baby powder and some Ben Gay. I need a freshen up. I’m wet, sweaty, tired, aching, chaffed, sore, and everyone around me is wearing a yamika. I pass by DiFara’s on my way to the train, there’s a sign on the door, “re-open at 6pm.” I got the last slice before he closed for 2 hours. I take the train back to George’s and it’s 5:30 when I get off and baby step to the apartment. I splash my face with water and rub my feet with muscle rub and Joy is at the door ready to take me to Roberta’s. You remember, the Satchel’s of New York. I explain to Joy that we should walk slowly and we walk back to the train and are at Roberta’s by 6:30. We meet Jody, Liz, and Alan there and these are all good friends and the place is a warehouse in an industrial part of town. The tables are broad and long and the oven is wood fired. The ceilings are high and the friends are good. I’m happy. I’m more than happy. Let’s eat.

Liz ordered a salad and when it came I think I devoured half of it, as my body was screaming for something green. So, I ordered another one. I got a pie with sausage and a couple others were ordered too. They were good, a little light on flavor but among friends and ambiance I found it in my heart to give them a 7.

I get back and realize I went to 5 pizza places and the MOMA. I saw about a thousand Picasso’s, Matisse’s, Cezanne’s, Miro’s, and some Klee and Kandinsky’s. Lots of Braque. Sometimes the paintings just look super awesome but other times they just feel thin and gimmicky. Even Picasso’s sometimes are lacking. Even Kandinsky did not grab me like I had expected. Before Guston and Morandi, back in my 20’s, wasn’t Kandinsky my favorite?

The Morandi’s held up to my scrutiny. Everyone else, not so much – except for Van Gogh who is clearly a genius like Morandi.

THURSDAY.

I have heard for years about George’s friend Dave who has a museum called the City Reliquary. I wanted to put a visual to this image in my head of this quirky New York museum. They are only open on the weekends but George called Dave and Dave met me for a personal tour. I had about 15 minutes before we had to rush off to catch one more pizza and a jet to Florida. Dave and I shake hands and I’m in awe. This museum is amazing. The décor and collections are intimate. Dave is telling me something about everything and I am just wishing I had 2 hours to look around. Thousands of Statue of Liberty postcards, antique hand holds from the subway of yesteryear. A collection of seltzer bottles, all from Brooklyn. A history of NY burlesque… If you ever go to New York and you’re there on a Saturday or Sunday, please go check out the reliquary. It is beyond cool, it’s badass.

Time was running out. We sped off to get to Totonno’s, George’s favorite New York pizza, exactly at noon when they opened so we could then speed off and get me to catch the 1:25 to Orlando International. Danny had loaned me a GPS and the smooth talking lady had directed us a clean route until the battery died and George pulled over to look at the map. We pulled up at 12:04 and I raced in to order. The guy making pizzas was on a different clock than me and he was already making a pie for a customer who beat us in. I chatted with the fellow briefly and learned that his coal-fired oven is set to a thousand degrees but probably running more like 800. He has the crust on the peel, then he’s setting some fresh mozzarella slices around, then some thin sausage slivers, the he spoons some sauce over it all. It cooks quick in those ovens, maybe just a few minutes. I chatted with the guy about the business, told him I had a place and I had been to 12 places and I heard he had a good place. He told me it was subjective. He said he appreciates that people love his pizza but everybody is entitled to their opinions. When it came out it was SO obvious that this was a pie to be reckoned with. The crust was dark but not burnt. It looked real sweet but I forgot to get a picture because I was in such a hurry. I snapped a picture of the store as we pulled away.

I grabbed a slice and it stuck straight out like it had rebar in the crust. Ah, yes, pizza. The perfect food. “Give me one of those!” George cries as she maneuvers through traffic. One hand on the wheel and the other eating a slice we weaved in and out of consciousness and cars and somehow made it to the airport on time. Totonno’s, 9.75. Again, I only can find a quarter point deduction for the lack of complexity to the sauce. I realize this goes contrary to Zen and simplicity of pizza but as good as the crust and cheese are, a few spices I the sauce would have been the ticket to 10 for me. However, this was the first pie that BECAUSE of the crust was I able to fully appreciate the simplicity of the sauce. I know that’s hard to grasp so just set it all aside in your mind while I blow your mind again… I had originally given DiFara’s a 9.5 and Totonno’s a 9.75 but upon reflecting on my DiFara’s slice 2 days later, I remembered something that made me bump it onto a tie with Totonno’s. What I remembered is simply the taste. I remember a fresh tomato chunk I bit into that slightly spurted into my mouth.

I walked up to my gate just as they were calling for rows 10 and up. I strolled past everyone sitting and was the first one to get my ticket into the ladies hand. I scored Totinno’s from seat 24F. It was raining. Back to Florida. I sure hope I can find some good pizza back home.