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The American pie is more than crust. It is explosively inventive, with toppings as ingenious as American cuisine gets. A pause here to reflect on the misuse of fresh basil by Italians. They seem to think of it as decorative rather than flavorful, and they spread not nearly enough of it on their fabled-but-flawed Margherita pies. They seem to go together, although less so anymore. I visited pizzerias and ate pies, although almost never the whole thing. You missed the best. I was forced to be merciless about this, because everybody I know has one of those, and everybody believes his is unsurpassed.
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In essence, a beloved pizzeria is almost always about memories. Your pizzeria is no good. Not one prepared a commendable crust. Out of respect to our president, who has enough problems, I will leave it at that. Within each of the ten cities, I ranged far. In New York, where I went to thirty-three pizzerias, I ate in every one of the five boroughs, and I ventured deep into the suburb of Westchester, where I live. I briefly left the state to visit nearby spots in New Jersey but had no success there.
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Again, no luck. In Detroit I drove nearly miles, a consequence of the local pizza diaspora. I would happily have broken my rule and gone to any other personal favorite—but nobody had one. Overaccessorizing was far from the worst problem I encountered. There is a dark side to the triumph of the American pie.
Pizza has become the gourmet food of the recession, and the men who create these pies consider themselves artists—narcissistic, reclusive artists, at that. These eccentrics specialize in Pizza OCD, bringing obsessive-compulsive disorders to the once simple business of making pies.
They often refuse to take reservations, thus guaranteeing themselves long lines of worshippers. Their primary weirdness, however, is preparing not quite enough dough for the day ahead so they might turn away the last few desperate customers.
Or they could prepare more than enough, but that would create the possibility that a ball or two of the dough that they love more than their customers would have to be thrown out. These guys find multiple ways of being annoying. At Pizzeria Bianco, a friend and I ordered four pies that we shared with the people who had stood in line with us for more than an hour. Still hungry, I tried to order a fifth, but I was cut off like a roaring drunk in an American Legion hall, told that I had reached my limit.
At a pizzeria I do not recommend in Chicago, I was informed when I called that I had to order ahead of time, although there is no menu on the restaurant Web site and the lady on the telephone refused to tell me what pies were available. Pizzerias now inhabit a space once occupied by snooty French restaurants, and they are smug, too. One pizzeria in Brooklyn I do not recommend lets you know that its pork is sustainable, its beef grass-fed, its eggs organic, and its grease converted into biofuel.
If only as much attention had been given to crusts. I have a final thought: ovens. Uniform and very high heat produces the best pies, which is why coal ovens have rightfully been so respected.
The coal adds little to the taste, and in fact a retired pizzamaker in New York City, Sal Petrillo, now in his eighties, told me a secret of the trade. He made certain they were evenly cooked. Gas and electricity frequently do as well. I phoned at p. The reply: 8 p. When I arrived a few minutes early, two of the fourteen people seated in the tiny storefront shop were eating.
The rest looked exasperated. Nick Lessins, the Polish-Czech co-owner and pizzamaker, seemed happily oblivious. I stood inside, watching for twenty-five minutes as he fashioned three pies, mine among them. No man is slower.
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He makes each as though it is his first, manipulating the dough until it appears flawless, putting on toppings one small bit after another. In the time he takes to create a pie, civilizations could rise and fall, not just crusts. The next day I returned to try the same pie topped with fresh garlic and mortadella, the dirigible-sized Italian sausage that looks like bologna, tastes like salami, and is usually cut into chunks.
He sliced the meat very thin and laid slices of it over the pie the moment it came out of the oven.
The mortadella, with its combination of burliness and creaminess, was a meaty addition to the earthy, bready crust. This pie—creative, original, and somewhat local—represents everything irresistible about the new American style of pizza-making. There really is. Owner and pizzamaker Mark Iacono stands behind a candlelit counter, wearing a white T shirt, looking mysterious and troubled, our first poster-boy pizzaiolo.
It drives the women crazy, or at least the ones who went there with me.
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To me he looked like the character played by Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck, except with two hands. Lucali takes no reservations, and standing in line is a necessity, although the staff is courteous and tries to alleviate the suffering by taking a cell-phone number and warning when your turn has arrived. More good news: Every pie that Iacono prepares is worth the wait. The crust stands firm. The mozzarella melts exquisitely. The basil is wildly fresh. Should you need additional toppings, go for thinly shaved porcini mushrooms, so good I was tempted to put a second Lucali pie on my list.
I sat at the cramped counter, watching a young woman standing in front of me crimp dough. She crimped and crimped, building in air holes with each purposeful squeeze of finger and thumb. Delfina has easily the best crust in San Francisco, an unusually successful fusion of Neapolitan and American styles. The pie placed before me looked slightly pale, but it had a yeasty aroma and a lovely sweetness. Indeed, heavy cream does seem peculiar, but if you think about the Italian evolution of cheese for pizza—mozzarella becoming fresh mozzarella and then becoming fresh buffalo-milk mozzarella, each one richer and milkier than the one before—heavy cream is the natural expression of where Italians intend to go.
The final addition, shavings of tangy, salty Parmigiano-Reggiano, is a brilliant step in the creation of an extraordinarily well-balanced pie. Before Chris Bianco, superhero, founded the artisan American-pizza industry, all was seemingly lost. The honored pizzerias with their ancient coal-fired ovens run by families that had arrived with Columbus were settling for pies with moribund crusts.
You become parched in the heat and ask the nice person behind you to save your spot while you walk over to Bar Bianco, next door, and buy a glass of faded Rioja from a bottle opened the previous day. The answer: plenty. On the other hand, waiting outside is like a big communal party, and had I not become chummy with one regular, I would never have ordered a Margherita pie topped with prosciutto.
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This fellow had three of them on his table, and he said it was all he ate. Our companions were a lonely waitress and a guy drinking at the bar. Finch strays downstairs to the basement recreation room where he meets Stifler's mother Jennifer Coolidge.