“I don’t know,” she said, “Not around here, I don’t know.”

“Well where do you go?”  I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said again.

Several seconds elapsed and then she said, “Why don’t you go to the Shell station at Ft. Hamilton Parkway and 65th Street?”  

I had no idea where that was.  But before I had the chance to ask, she said (with zero fanfare), “It’s right next to Rocco’s Calamari.  You can have lunch while they do the inspection.”

“How do I get there? I asked.

--

Step into Rocco’s for the first time and you may experience momentary confusion.  At right is a dining area with about 18 tables; to the left a couple more tables and a counter with four stools.  Immediately ahead you’ll see Rocco at the register.  He’s wearing a tight black tee shirt — biceps apparent — and he's speaking with customers or taking phone orders.  If it’s lunchtime the place is sure to be packed — yes with people sitting at the tables, but also with a dozen or so others, standing alongside and studying the contents of Rocco’s food selection.  You see, Rocco’s is a cafeteria.  A really good cafeteria.

You could sit down, ask for a menu, and order — but don’t.  You need to see what they have.  Many foods are offered just once a week and mixing is encouraged.  What that means is, if you want, you can order one bocconcini ball, a single spoonful of green bean and potato salad, three half-shell clams, one butterflied grilled shrimp, one crab cake, and a sliver of lasagna.  They’ll do that.  In fact — according to Rocco — “that’s the magic” of the concept.

I know of many other Italian cafeteria-style restaurants in Brooklyn.  In my neighborhood alone, there is Vinny’s on Smith Street (excellent pasta e fagiole, grilled chicken paillard, and arugula salad), Francesca’s at Henry and Union (I order a salad with fried shrimp or calamari on top; they have pizza — I hear it’s been improving), and Catania on Atlantic Avenue (a newer place that I reviewed recently on the Slice blog — great Sicilian style pizza and homemade pastry).  But none of these places — nor others I have seen around town — offer the scope of Rocco’s selection.

The one item you won’t see in Rocco’s display cases is what I consider his pièce de résistance: fried calamari.  That’s because it’s made to order and dished up behind the scenes.  The resulting squid is tender and not rubbery on the inside, light and crispy on the outside.  It’s more reminiscent of tempura than the standard cornmeal- or flour-dusted affair typical of Thai restaurants and sports bars.  Quality-wise, it’s better than the stuff at fancy places, and it’s served with a choice of three marinara sauces (aka “gravies”) in varying levels of spiciness.  (Rollover above photo for a closer look — that's the medium sauce.)

I asked Rocco — who purchased the business in 1981 (it was previously called “Joe’s Italian Cafeteria”) — how he decided on calamari as a theme.  When he took over, he told me, the restaurant was selling about 27 pounds of calamari each Friday.  He thought, why not make it available five days a week instead of just one.  (Rocco’s is closed on Sundays and Mondays.)  He tweaked the recipe a bit, added “Calamari” to the restaurant’s name, and sales of squid skyrocketed to 2,000 pounds a week (at its peak, a few years ago).  That includes not just the fried product (which accounts for about 75% of Rocco's squid sales) but also other dishes, such as an amazing “stuffed calamari” (Fridays only), pasta with calamari, and a seafood salad that counts calamari as one of several of its ingredients.

My second favorite food at Rocco’s — and I opt for it more often than fried calamari, because it’s healthier — is the octopus salad.  Again, tenderness is the key.  Rocco’s cooks Portuguese octopus for at least two hours in a huge pot of boiling water and then chills it for a day before cutting it up.  The salad is a mix of octopus chunks about an inch thick, olives, capers, both sweet and spicy cherry peppers, and garlic.  The hot peppers furnish a kick that separates this octopus salad from any other I've had.  Thank you, Rocco, for your Calabrian roots: I could eat this spicy salad all day.

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One time several years ago, with my friend Tim, I picked up an octopus salad (and a certain excellent sandwich) from a different, smaller Brooklyn restaurant that's also set up with food on display.  When we got back to my place to enjoy it, we couldn't.  It was fishy and inedible.  I called the restaurant and told the owner, very politely, that the octopus salad didn't taste good.  The guy told me he would believe me except he had just eaten it himself and it was fine. "It's the best octopus money can buy.  It's from Portugal," he said.

It was not easy (because I really like that certain excellent sandwich they have), but I boycotted the place for at least three years.  When I returned (for the sandwich), the guy looked at me — first time he'd seen me in years — and I knew right away that he knew that I had called to complain about the octopus salad three years earlier.  His eyes seemed to say, "I knew you'd be back.  I know it's a good sandwich.  And by the way, that octopus was fine."

But it wasn't.

For years — because I didn't bother to look into it — I figured that if octopus tastes fishy it must be due to issues of freshness and that therefore one should avoid previously-frozen octopus.  But when Rocco told me that his octopus comes from Portugal (and arrives frozen, too), I knew I had to look into this.  Here's one article that delves into the topic with a level of detail that would satisfy most people.  It turns out that most octopus sold in the US is previously frozen, and that "the quality of octopus, like that of squid, does not suffer noticeably when it is frozen." It also says that fresh octopus spoils quickly.

So, now I get it.  Rocco's treats its octopus with Respect (I've had it a dozen times or more, it has never tasted fishy). And that other place — well, maybe it was an off day.

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The above photo shows the split order I had while interviewing Rocco last week: half fried calamari, half octopus salad.  Remember, they'll do that.

Click the photo at the top of this post to see a video featuring Rocco's and their unbeatable calamari.

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Map Rocco's Calamari.  Rocco's is open Tuesday through Saturday 7 am - 8 pm (Friday until 9 pm); closed Sunday and Monday.  Tel. 718-833-2109.  Rocco's website.

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 a  more 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 for Ray’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 especially like pizza historian Scott Weiner’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 her 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 or failure 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.

Many pizzamen I’ve met have described dough-making as a nuanced process.  If the goal is to make a quality product that will bake to chewy and crunchy perfection, they say you can’t follow an exact recipe because variations in humidity and air temperature affect the outcome.  (In fact, bakers prefer the word "formula" to "recipe.")

Only experienced hands can make dough come out year-round within a narrow range of uniformity, and only a bread guru could transcribe that process into a set of reliable instructions.  Jim Lahey, the celebrated owner of Sullivan Street Bakery, did just that.  His bread cookbook (it also has pizza recipes) emphasizes a no-knead, 12-18 hour rise time process that culminates in awesome good bread. 

A few weeks ago I visited Jim at the bakery and watched him work.  As I arrived, the Hobart was churning a beige mass of butter, sugar and flour. The project — chocolate chip cookies — has been on his plate since early July, but he didn’t seem flustered by the amount of effort it has taken so far.

“What’s the goal?” I asked him. 
“Crisp and chewy at the same time,” he said, adding, “I’m never happy with anything, Michael.”
“But at some point you let it go.” I said. 
“Kind of,” he said.  “A bit.  I want to hypothesis-test and this is a hypothesis.  The issue is an execution issue.  I wasn’t really paying attention to weight.  I prefer using a spoon to do this — like old school — like Mom-in-the-kitchen school.”

I watched as he and his pastry supervisor addressed questions of leavening, spacing on the pan, flour on the board, rolling vs. spooning, bake time, cold dough vs. dough at room temperature, and size.  Jim won’t settle for a partway result.  He liked (but didn’t love) the cookies.  So he asked an employee to refrigerate the remainder of the dough for later testing and he moved on to sandwiches.  (Rollover above photo for a slideshow of Jim's cookie-making process.)

Most of us do not have the time or wherewithal to chase recipe perfection.  It’s tough enough to get dinner on the table.  We may adapt to failings over time by using less salt or reducing a bake time by five minutes, but we strive to improve — not to perfect.

I recommend the Jim Lahey approach: make something, be happy with it, also try to improve it, and savor the process.

I’ve bought plenty of cookbooks that feature great ideas but mediocre recipes.  If I decide to remake an average food because I like the concept or the picture, I tweak it on my own.  We can’t all own Modernist Cuisine: The Art and Science of Cooking, an expensive multi-volume cookbook ($451 from Amazon) that presents science and recipes together.  But centrifuge and sous vide preps notwithstanding, a desire to experiment can feed the mind as well as the belly — and lead to obsession. That's what happened to me this November with duck confit.

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One summer many years ago Kristin and I visited Paris and stayed with our friend Sharon.  As we discussed where to have dinner one afternoon, Sharon raised the topic of duck confit.  “What do you mean you’ve never had duck confit?” she said.  “You have to have duck confit.”

She brought us to some restaurant and we sat at a table outside.  As we awaited our food, she worked to manage my expectations: “This is a good place for duck confit.  I doubt it’s the best in Paris, but it’s good.”  Brief pause.  “You know this isn’t the right time of year to have it,” she said, “It’s a winter dish.  But you have to have it.”

Melt-in-your-mouth tender briskety-but-soft duck meat with buttery warm richness and a hint of garlic and thyme.  I think there were potatoes and beer too but I can’t remember for sure — I was swooning in duck.

For several weeks after, I couldn’t stop thinking about duck confit.  The only option was to make it from scratch.  Without researching recipes, I committed myself with no turning back: I spent $25 on duck legs at the farmer’s market.   (Above photo shows my homemade duck confit — mid-eating.   Rollover it for a slideshow of my process.)

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Duck confit (confit de canard in French) sounds fancy, but it is and always has been a people’s food.

First, the price is low — even from a pricey NYC farmer’s market: $6-7 per portion (though you must also invest in a $7-10 container of reusable duck fat).  Second, confit — which is salt cured and then slow-cooked in its own fat — evolved as a method for preserving meats for winter eating.  It’s like canning okra, but with duck: which would you prefer?!  Third, it’s easy to make.  I researched recipes, processes, storage, and cooking minutiae from multiple sources (including a helpful query on Facebook) and I made excellent duck confit in one try.

For benchmarking, I also purchased and prepared two ready-to-go confits.  D’Artignan’s (available in gourmet markets, or via www.dartignan.com for $9 per piece) resembled mine in flavor, but was not as meaty or rich.  The one from Dickson’s Farmstand Meats in Chelsea Market ($10 per piece) was too salty and chewy.  Lesson learned: DIY is worth the effort.

Preparing duck confit does require a few decisions and I made one mistake worth noting. It occurred when I was preparing to fry them for dinner.  As I inverted my duck pieces — still straightjacketed in their Tupperware-shaped block of solidified duck fat — into a saucepan for warming, I discovered a ½-inch-thick “duck jelly” coating.  Gelée. It shimmered and glistened and grossed me out, so I threw it away without thinking.  What a mistake.  It was liquid gold: a jus that I should have served over the mashed potatoes as gravy.

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A few days later, I travelled to Washington, DC to cook Thanksgiving dinner for 13.  I had read about the challenges of roasting a whole turkey — how it’s an imperfect bird because the dark meat needs more cooking time than the white.  I brined, I basted — I even iced the breasts before cooking.  Still, dry. 

No such problem with duck.  The confit cooked for over six hours with no maintenance and came out juicy and tender.  I won’t succeed in persuading Americans to eat duck on Thanksgiving — I tried with my family and it didn't work.  Americans may never embrace confit de canard en masse. The should know what they're missing. Below is my recipe. Embrace the process.

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Duck confit, serves 4.  (Modified from the Thomas Keller recipe, which I found posted here.  Cheers to Hudson Valley Duck Farm, from whom I purchased four superior Moulard duck legs.)

Ingredients.

4 fresh duck legs with thigh joints attached
16 oz rendered duck fat
½ cup kosher or coarse sea salt
2 bay leaves, crumbled
3 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
⅓ cup Italian (flat) parsley leaves
2 teaspoons black peppercorns
4-5 cloves garlic, smashed

Equipment.

An ovenproof pot into which duck legs can fit in a single layer
Metal tongs
Mortar & pestle (optional)

Process.

Day 1.  Wash duck legs and dry thoroughly with paper towels.  Mix salt, garlic, and spices by hand, or mash together with mortar & pestle.  Rub spice mixture onto duck pieces and arrange tightly into the bottom of a glass or ceramic container.  Cover and refrigerate for 24 hours.  (Or, separately wrap duck pieces in plastic and refrigerate for 24 hours.) 

Day 2.  Preheat oven to 200 degrees F.  Warm rendered duck fat in ovenproof pot over low heat.  Do not boil.  Wash spice rub off of duck legs — make sure to remove all salt — and dry thoroughly with paper towels.  Add dried duck pieces to melted fat in pot, place in oven, and cook uncovered for 6½ hours.  Remove from oven and allow to cool to room temperature.  Use tongs to transfer duck pieces to storage container, preferably glass.  Pour liquid fat through a strainer into duck container until all pieces are immersed.  Cover and refrigerate.  Pour remainder of fat through the strainer into a separate container.  [Note about the fat: you’ll have ~40% more fat than the beginning amount.  According to the duck farmer, you can reuse the fat twice, and then discard ⅓ of it after each new batch.] [Note on use-by date: most recipes suggest using duck within 6 month, but one stated that less intense salting limits preserve time to 1 week.  Feel free to comment on this.]

Meal day.  Invert duck-and-fat mold into pot.  Use spoon to transfer layer of “jelly” to a small saucepan.  Warm over low heat to use as gravy.  Heat nonstick or well-seasoned iron pan over medium flame.  Add duck pieces, skin side up, and cook until browned on bottom.  Turn pieces and repeat.  Serve and enjoy.

endless pies 
who could try them all who would try them all 
even the average spots they still make me smile 
at least momentarily they fulfill my yearning 
to relive that virgin slice experience 
and to reach higher plateaux along my trail toward pizza heaven.

you can go nearby or venture somewhere by train or car 
follow up on a review utilize a tip from someone you know 
find yourself feeling hungry in an unfamiliar area 
pizza is there.

in excess not so healthy but shit it’s gotta be better for you  
than fast food hamburgers 
myself i try to limit it to 1 slice at lunch 
dinner is another story.

must check out super thin cracker crust or thick square sicilian style 
naples plate-size circumference fork and knife focaccia sfincione 
grandma brick oven staten island bronx gas oven coal-burning wood-burning 
900 600 500 degrees 
bubbly charred bottom original famous rays stracitella robiola truffle 
it’s only a matter of time 
before the 5 inch foie gras caviar pie will debut at $79 a pop 
or perhaps it already has 
the food writers and gourmets will talk it up 
wealthy people love pizza too.

must check out the classics 
places that claim to be the first 
families that have known cheese for decades descendants churning out pies 
sometimes at odds over whether the business should expand 
to accommodate all the cousins 
first they must remain true to the ideal the quality and the history 
and to that framed picture of grandpa and great uncle up there on the wall 
men who wore black bow ties fedoras and white baker’s aprons.

neighborhood joints where owners still work dough 
remind me of old town bars only the counter is formica not mahogany 
the bartender is spreading sauce baking pies not straining vodka 
and the habit of course 
is pizza 
cheesy saucy crunchy chewy dime-saving Italy-beckoning all-empowering pizza pies.

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.

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.

Every day I’m faced with decisions about chips.  Isn't everyone?  Haven't you ever awakened in the morning to discover that you've been shoveling them in while asleep?

Today for lunch, I should have a bowl of Trader Joe’s Ginger Almond & Cashew Granola Cereal with sliced banana.  If I eat a sandwich it'll mean more chips.  I have a blog called pizzacentric and I'm supposed to watch my cholesterol.  Chips are a bigger threat than pizza: they seep through the cracks everywhere.

A few weeks ago, I drove from Delaware to Brooklyn with a stomach ache the whole way — possibly caused by onion rings I'd had for lunch.  Arrived home, hit the kaibo, drank some Pepto.  Felt better but remained uneasy, so I had a light dinner of granola and blueberries.  Still hungry, I eyed a caramel-filled chocolate bar in the fridge door but I steered clear because chocolate — high in acid — could upset my stomach.  I watched some tv and forgot about my hunger until a bit later — during a commercial break — I wandered back to the fridge and noticed a pint of restaurant salsa with drip stains along the sides.  It was leftover from our friend John’s meal at Lobo, a nearby Mexican place, and I needed to tried it.  It was SO SPICY, but into it I dipped chip after chip after chip -- forgetting my upset stomach. 

Salty is my weak spot.

What's your "side dish" if your sandwich shop of choice doesn't offer fries?  Chips.  You're hungry but you have only 25 cents in your pocket?  Chips.  What will you serve your guests (along with beer) during a football game?  Chips. 

Chips, they beckon in myriad ways: potato taro beet hummus soy kale fried baked low-fat kettle popped reconstituted puffed triangular rectangular corn chips bean chips pita chips blue chips orange chips yellow and white chips flat curvy spicy salt 'n' pepper salt & vinegar less-salt light-salt no-salt jalapeño Thai yogurt mustard crab rib bbq sour cream & onion loaded baked potato ridged thick thin safflower canola olive avocado or peanut oil lard. They are cheap, easy to find, and every day manage to infiltrate my defenses and make me want them.  What is a canola anyway?

I look at fat on the label.  Saturated fat.  The lower the better.  But what about natural, that counts too.  Chips with chemically reengineered frying fat cannot be better than peanut oil, can they?

Chips lure me in like a Crossroads demon: the old greasy standards (Utz, Wise, Lay's); spinoffs from the Frito-Lay-esque mega-corps (Kettle Cooked, Cape Cod, New York Deli Chips); and higher priced gourmet varieties made of beets and parsnips and cassava, olive oil, and multi-culti flavor profiles.  Anyone for some baked lentil pappadam chips?  How about "dill pickle flavor" or "Zapp's Spicy Cajun Crawtaters."

I read in David Chang's "Lucky Peach" magazine one writer's idea of "THE BEST POTATO CHIPS IN THE WORLD." They're thin sliced and slow cooked in lard.  What makes them so good, it says, is that prior to cooking they are not sprayed (as most are) to remove starch, and this results in a crisper slow-cooked chip with perceived (but not true) thickness.  The accompanying recipe, "Potato Chips & Oriental Dip," instructs the following: "1 seasoning packet from your favorite brand of instant ramen, 1 12-oz. container of sour cream, 1 16-oz bag of THE BEST POTATO CHIPS IN THE WORLD.  Mix ramen seasoning powder into sour cream.  Stir to combine.  Let the mixture meld together for 20 minutes.  Use chips to scoop ramen dip."

I don't think I'm an addict.  I don't crave chips except when I'm hungry or if they’re placed in front of me.  But I do buy them in excess.  The mind-eye connection of observing a delectable item on a shelf causes me to buy chips I don’t need.  The packaging and bag copy direct my emotions to a choice.  Some — like Lay's — are thin, crispy, 20% greasy, and chewable by top teeth and tongue alone — it's cool.  

The iconic Lay's bag bombards my brain with salt, oil, and crunch.  I taste them even before my first bite.  Lay’s-type chips harken memories of childhood picnics.  They complement foods like hamburgers and hotdogs, sandwiches on white or wheat, grilled cheese, BLTs, tomato soup.

Half a notch up are thicker dip-worthy varieties of the same brands, including Ruffles (superior to Wavy Lay's), "Kettle Cooked," and Herr's (with ridges).  These chips deliver 5% less grease and of course, a good 30% added crunch.  When I visit my wife's family in Iowa, I eat Old Dutch "Rip-L" chips with tub after tub of  Anderson Erickson's unparalleled garlic dip.

Next come "healthier" variations on the above.  Non ho capito "reduced fat."  Claims of better or lesser oil, such as (the already debunked) Olestra chips, scare me like saccharine, aspartame, sucralose, stevia, etcetera.  Don't be fooled.  Remember, a teaspoon of sugar has 16 calories. It's okay, have some.

Next up are the post-Cold War premium brands that lure me in with catchy flavors.  Kettle Brand Chips and Terra Chips from back in the day; Route 11, McClure's, and the trendy Pop Chips of the 2010s, plus many others that seem to show up weekly.  I sometimes stare for an extra long time before deciding.  In 1994 I was addicted to Kettle Brand Honey Mustard potato chips. 

Then there are the non-potato potato chips.  Are fried beets healthier than fried potatoes?  Do blue potatoes deliver more vitamins than golden ones?  Parsnips, lentils, and azuki beans: are some of these attractive to me because they'll look good in a bowl on the table?   I thought Yukon Golds were for mashing.

Then, Pringles.  A scientific breakthrough.  I used to eat them a ton.  Potatoes taken apart, mixed with stuff, and formed into identical half-duckbill-shaped chips, then stacked into a tube.  They didn't save the world but they did make chip-eating more fun.  Now, the stores tuck them into a corner, hide them in plain site, or present them on out-of-reach: we're over Pringles.  

I think Pringles are big in Europe.  They're sold on trains. I have friends who claim they're popular in Argentina. Façonable in Japan?  Probably.  But Pringles owner Procter & Gamble didn't seem to care.  Or at least they didn't want them anymore.  In Spring 2011, P&G sold the brand to Diamond Foods — packager of nuts and owner of Kettle Brand Chips.  Americans: don't forget Pringles — even if they are barely of potato (people in Britain now save money thanks to this little detail — read more here).

Why did I quit Pringles?  I recall that I never could finish a whole tube but could polish a comparably-sized bag of competitor chips.  At the time, I thought they were too salty and too uniform in flavor.  But no.  I now believe it is the uniformity of the Pringle's shape that wears me down.  Maybe it's an American thing — this need for diversity in chips.  Every Ruffle tastes the same, but Ruffles don't feel the same as each other — and that's what makes them fun to eat.  [I can extend the analogy a bit further.  Preference for Pringles : consumer taste within a smaller gene pool :: preference for non-Pringles : consumer taste within a diverse land like the U.S.A.]

Finally,  there are the Not Yet Through The Crack Chips.  On May 3rd, when Adam Kuban -- founder of my favorite pizza blog slice.seriouseats.com — tweeted about some random Asian chips, he wrote, "Somebody please take these away from me.  They're addictively delicious!  And I have no idea what they are" (Click here to see them.)  I looked for them and couldn't find them. 

I’ve no doubt that our future will involve more and more types of chips previously thought unimaginable.  For instance, prosciutto chips: paper thin, salty, and crispy with a single crack of pepper perfectly centered on each chip.  They garnish plates in fancy restaurants, why not sell them by the bag for $12.99/oz?

Yesterday, I waited too long for lunch.  As I rode the subway home at around 3, I contemplated what to have: granola or sandwich.  Sandwich, I decided.  I could make one at home with food already purchased.  But I first wandered into the "health food store" to find some chips, and discovered a new brand: "Michael Season's Feel Good Snacking^TM Natural Gourmet Lightly Salted Thin and Crispy Traditional Style Reduced Fat Potato Chips."  Great mouthful, but it was the backside copy that got me: "Our premium potato chips are all-natural and deliciously different.  They're thin & crispy like the chips you grew up with — but without that greasy feeling.” 

And it was true: Michael Season’s took me back to that magical picnic of youth — but with about 35% less greae.  Thank you, Mr. Season!

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.

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 from 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? (Rollover above photo for a shot of the amazing market in Villefranche-sur-Saône, Beaujolais, France.)

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 -- must 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 address fish being 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 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 found their fish guy, he and Nick took their time deciding what to get for lunch.  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 getting 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 ~75% 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. 

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.  Please email me if you have this info.

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 is 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