THE PIZZA KING

Years ago, in Brooklyn, on the corner of my block sat a bar and it sold pizza and Italian take-out, like hot meatball sandwiches. The neighborhood itself was a culinary wonder, as one could get groceries, deli, fish, vegetables and fruits, all fresh from mom and pop stores. They were convenient and the prices may have been a little high, but that is what you patronized.



That bar on the corner made the best pizza I ever ate, and on Friday nights, I would go with Dad to order the pizza at the bar and as we waited, I would smell the pizza being made. Along with the smell of the bar, probably beer, my appetite was at full alert for a 5 year-old. To this day, there is no pizza like it. I think it really is the first time you have anything it is the best, nothing can really compare to the surprise and taste of something that you genuinely love for the first time.

Dad was raised making pizza, and growing up as a teenager, worked in my grandmother’s pizzeria, where the whole of East New York, Brooklyn was their territory. Being how he was raised on it, he became very particular about the ingredients and how they were used. The piecrust had to be just so, not rubbery, or dough tasting. There should be a nice color to it, and it needed to be finished underside, but to a perfect color. Sauce was also important to Dad, and every time he ate at my house when I married, I worried about where I got the pizza and if he would approve of it.



Either loving or hating the pie, Dad would take a bite, and begin to analyze crust and sauce. Holding up the pie so he could look under it, like a mechanic looking for an oil leak on a car, he made his comments, and then we moved onto the sauce.

“Too acidy!” or “No flavor!” was the usual criticism.

If by chance, the pie passed his scrutiny, it was: “Now, THAT’S how you make a pie!” then went into the reasons.

Why I ordered pizza on those Friday nights he came over, I will never understand, except to say that it was TLW’s (The Little Woman’s) favorite food, AND she didn’t have to cook.

Mom would make her own pies for many years. If you wonder what Dad had to say: don’t, because if he didn’t approve, a pizza hat would be fashioned by Mom in a New York minute, to go on dear old Dad’s head!

As for me, Dad made me become a crazy person about pizza! If it isn’t my own, or from what I consider a legitimate pizzeria, I won’t eat it! If I ever bit into a Pizza Hut or Poppa John pizza, I will be seeing visions of Dad AND my grandmother in the middle of the night, harassing me! Don’t even come near me with a store bought pizza from the frozen food section! That IS crap! OK, maybe I AM a snob, but you will NEVER beat a New York style pizza, and the best of the best come from Brooklyn and Long Island pizzerias.

For years, TLW would have loved to eat the frozen or the Dominoes variety for convenience, but I would not have it. As it says on the pizza boxes: “You’ve had the rest, now try the best!”