Go Metric

No Contest, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Enjoy a $1 Slice

by Joe Evans III

In recent attempts to branch out regarding my diet, I reached a point where I thought “After twenty some odd years, I think I’m over pizza.” But when asked to check out a pizza eating contest at the Bell House in Brooklyn, my immediate, genuine reaction was “Sounds great!” After all, what better way to learn to love something again by watching people shove piles of it down their throats? Plus, I assumed even as a spectator, I could eat for free.

Investigation led me to find out that the whole thing was sponsored by a new local company specializing in packaged condiments. “It’ll revolutionize the way you eat pizza!” they claim, which to me is a rather bold statement. But, I have a journalistic responsibility to cover something like this.

Go Metric Best of 2010 Rehash

Attention: The Go Metric "new ideas" tank is on "E."

Our response?

Rehash.

You beat us to the punchline. We know you did. Just like our staff, your sense of morality is centered around icons such as Don Henley, The Cars, and The Police, practitioners of the "Greatest Hits Album with One New Song."

Only we at Go Metric are going to do them one less. Thus, the following: a look back at 2010 with no new material! Happy Holidays!

Borrowed Time

Mischief Night: Fred Frith at the Stone

Call Off Your Bugs! An Interview with John Q. Adams III

You’ll Always Know Your Neighbor: Lock City Pizza

A Few Questions with the Rhythm Chicken

An Interview with Fesh – The Man, the Mitch, the Legend. Part One | Part Two

Video: Egghead.'s Johnny Reno Turns 40

That Which Doesn't Kill You: Timothy Carey's Tweets

Reality Hunger: A Manifesto – David Shields

On the Precipice of Greatness: The Too Big to Fail Diaries Day One | Day Two | Day Three | Days Four and Five

Remembering Jay Reatard

Joe Evans III Likes Food

I was in college when I started to really figure myself out. I liked punk rock and watching Saturday Night Live reruns all day. While these discoveries led to an increase in my confidence, no one else particularly cared about any of those things. But when my roommate Mike and I started cooking food in our bathroom (filling our countertop with a toaster over and two separate George Forman grills), we discovered that everyone loves food. It was pretty ridiculous I hadn’t noticed it more already – after all some of my favorite parts of the day involved sitting around with my roommates and friends for a communal meal.

Admittedly, I hadn’t really considered myself much of a “foodie,” and with my schedule, I’d spend more time ordering off the dollar menu wherever the shortest line was in the Penn Station food court. But after a while (and feeling like I was on the verge of death more and more often), I made a decision; I was slowly going to take what I ate more seriously. At the very least, pay closer attention, and try to branch out – after all, I spend roughly half my time running around New York City, where I’ve got a lot of options.

So I’m filling in with House Boat, the new incarnation of The Steinways; pop punk about working crappy temp jobs, and the fairer sex. Fortunately for me, I work temp jobs and have crushes on said sex all the time, so it was a natural fit. Unfortunately for me, it also means that it’s not in my best interest to spend a lot of money on food (and in turn, leaving young ladies relatively unimpressed). The plus side is that we’re playing at Lost and Found (actually, it’s called Lulu’s, but it’s bounced back and forth multiple times, and frankly Lost and Found is a better name), which is a good place if say, you haven’t worked in over a month, and have a budget that reflects that. I end up getting there pretty early, so I drop off my stuff inside, and walk to the bodega across the street to buy some ice cream. There’s some sort of weird Spanish things in tubes, while tempting, seeing I was playing a show and a little nervous of the unknown; I stick with something I know, a strawberry FrozFruit bar to eat outside while the sun set (and watched as the rain storm from earlier that day causing the manhole covers to start shooting up from the street).

The bar has a deal where if you buy a drink, you can get a free pizza, so naturally that’s what I did. For the fact that it’s free, it’s actually decent – after some remodeling, they took out a lot of the dank atmosphere, and put in a small pizza kitchen, so they’re freshly made and not just frozen. You can even get extra toppings for a dollar, which I skip in favor of saving a dollar. Sitting at a table eating by myself, I was reminded of getting personal pizzas from Pizza Hut as a kid from a school program, except now I’m being rewarded for playing music for drunken nerds instead of reading unchallenging books.

When the show finishes up, it’s too late for me to get back home to the suburbs, so I end up sleeping on the floor of my friend’s apartment out in Queens. The next morning, I make my way back home, trudging through the New York City subway and NJ Transit, but by the time I get to Hoboken to catch my final train, I’m feeling pretty ragged.  I was hoping to avoid spending more money, but decide splurge and get some breakfast; an egg sandwich and a can of Arnold Palmer.



It’s pretty simple, but I figure getting a whole-wheat bagel would be a marginally healthier option. And it was fairly cheap, and thus up my alley. Sure, doing nothing but playing in bands often prevents you from doing things like, say, being able to afford an apartment. But, at least it affords you small pleasures like eating breakfast while enjoying a nice view.

— Joe Evans III

More Than a Feeling: Pizzeria Regina

I had been to Boston in my early 20s, a journey from which I recall only a McLobster sandwich and navigating the lobby of a cheap hotel overrun by the members of War (yes, that War).

After a 15 year lay-off, I returned to the site of our country’s original Tea Party to visits some friends, promptly asking several locals to describe a "Boston-style" pizza. I received mostly shrugs. Unlike its East Coast neighbors (e.g. New York, New Haven, and Philadelphia), Beantown pizza does not seem to have a signature style. One thing everyone could agree on was that the first (and possibly) best pizzeria to try is Pizzeria Regina, a brick oven favorite since 1926.

I had seen a Regina in South Station upon disembarking from my bus, but the original, more authentic location is nestled in the city’s historically Italian neighborhood, the North End. The day my friends and I descended on Regina’s happened to be Saint Anthony's Feast, the largest Italian religious festival in New England, which means the joint was mobbed with festival-goers getting ready for a day of overindulgence via zeppole, cannoli, and other heart-stopping Italian street treats. But Regina gets ‘em in and out and we were quickly seated amidst Red Sox memorabilia and autographed shots of celebrities that scream “local tradition.”

Photo: Some rights reserved by stevegarfield

The menu and napkins both carry the Regina manifesto and tell you pretty much everything you need to know up front: the quality and sourcing of ingredients is top-notch; an 80-year-old dough recipe “uses a special natural yeast and is aged to perfection”; their light tomato sauce adds a touch of aged romano; mozzarella is a specialty aged whole milk variety. With more than 20 pies to choose from, our group kept simple with the Margehrita: tomato sauce and fresh chopped basil with mozzarella and pecorino romano.

The crust at Regina is quite wonderful — crispy and not quite burned on the outside (apparently, there is more of a char on weekdays when the oven is less crowded and pies get a few more minutes of cook time); the inside strikes the perfect combination between chewy and light. The sauce has a wonderful fresh tomato bite; not too sweet and with a little zing from the romano. My only criticism: the cheese. If you’re going to go to the trouble of rocking excellent fresh ingredients, why not go the extra mile and use fresh mozzarella? Perhaps skimping on cheese keeps the price of the pies lower?

Regina boasts one of those great, classic pizzas that you and a couple friends can kill in 10 minutes before stumbling back out into the late summer heat, feeling light enough to nimbly dodge a high school marching band on their way to fete Saint Anthony. Wicked good!

— Brett Essler

New York City Pizza: Small Bites

As Life of Pie continues to tick New York City's best pizzerias off the list with amazing speed, there isn't the time nor space to fully review them all. So, a re-cap of several months of pizzactivity with five small bites: Emporio, Veloce, Patsy's, Sullivan Street Bakery, and Kesté.

Emporio

Emporio is in Nolita, which means it's less a "pizzeria" than a semi-fancy trattoria that happens to do pizza really well. The best view in the house is in the back room, where skylights illuminate the pizziolo in action at his wood-burning oven. Given Emporio's busy brunch traffic, my wife and I were seated at the front window, so our view included the neighborhood's street traffic (including a small white poodle with a purple Mohawk) and a salon across the street where women were receiving intense neck massages. About the pizza: it's Roman-style and the crust is perfect on the edges, but turns a bit soggy in the middle, as the buffalo mozzarella pools with San Marzano tomatoes and basil in a very flavorful mess, topped off with a bit of hot pepper oil for some kick. Forks are required. This column is about pizza, but we'd be remiss if we did not mention the excellent salads. Blue state alert: one was endive, beet, and hazelnut, the other fava bean with fennel, and both were delicious. A bit hard on the wallet, but worth a special trip.

Photo: jasoneppink

Veloce

Having read some recent reports that Veloce, a fine purveyor of Sicilian pizza, was having trouble filling seats, we circled back for another visit, my parents in tow. After rapping a bit with the bartender about their endless loop of Sicilian films (guys, you are wearing that L'avventura DVD out), we dug in to two pies: the arugula (mozzarella, fontina, sweet onion, grape tomato) and the sopressata picante (tomato sauce, parmigiano-reggiano, sweet onion, mozzarella). Both were excellent examples of a pie somewhat different from the style New Yorkers have come to know as "Sicilian" (read: doughy): Veloce's crust is airier and includes some potato flour. These guys also know their wine, so have them pair one with your pizza of choice (try the nero d'avola, grown in the volcanic soil of Mount Etna).

Photo: h-bomb

Patsy's

There probably isn't much new to be said about this institution that hasn't already been noted over the last 70-plus years. The bottom line, if you are anywhere near East Harlem, make time for Patsy's. They offer both a takeout window featuring slices of their famous coal oven pizza and a dining room (cash only). The crust is rather light and thin (they use no olive oil in their dough) and the fantastic ingredients (including aged mozzarella) are so cooked to perfection, a party of two can easily kill one large pie, as evidenced by these photos, taken at the conclusion of a long spring bike ride:

Photos: bee721

Sullivan Street Bakery

Jim Lahey's Company was covered a few column's ago, but his Sullivan Street Bakery is another animal all together. Where Company is a communal, sit-down restaurant experience, Sullivan St. is mainly a bread and sandwich outpost for restaurant and retail distribution, with small sit-down area to grab a slice of pizza and a Pellegrino. I've visited several times alone or with a friend for the pizza pomodoro (tomato, olive oil, and salt; thin, crisp crust with slightly burned edges) and the pizza zucchini (zucchini, gruyere cheese, bread crumbs; thin, crisp crust). They are both out of this world, as is the stecca, a small bread loaf made with pizza bianca dough and filled with a seasonal vegetable. Sullivan Street Bakery is a little off the beaten path (for Manhattan), but worth the trip.

Photos: Jessica Kourkounis

Kesté

Since being voted New York's best pizza by New York magazine last year, and given its Bleeker Street location in tourist central, the wait at Kesté can be long (mitigated by the owners occasionally bringing some sample slices out to the hungry horde). Luckily, these authentic 12-inch Neapolitan pies come out of the oven in the requisite 10 minutes and boast all the hallmarks of a Naples-certified pizza: charred crust, tangy tomatoes, fresh buffalo mozzarella. I could on and on, but will say only this: if you can  manage to get in the door for the Pizza Del Papa, do so. The mix of butternut squash cream, imported smoked mozzarella, artichoke, and red and yellow peppers sounds like a mess on paper, but in reality was one of the best mixes of flavors I have ever encountered.

Photo: ian_crowther

— Brett Essler

Related Life of Pie Reviews:

Artichoke Basille's Pizza & Brewery

Company

Totonno's Pizzeria Napolitano

This Never Happened to Pablo Picasso

If you were on a quest for great pizza on the east coast, Stowe, Vermont may not be the first place you'd look. However, amidst great natural beauty and boutiques that cater to wealthy vacationers is Piecasso Pizzeria & Lounge, purveyor of fine New York-style pies. Piecasso’s owner, Eduardo Rovetto, is part of a Sicilian pizza dynasty with Rovetto family members owning 10 pizzerias up and down the east coast. He opened Picasso in 2000 and moved to the current, larger location in 2006. In 2009, Piecasso was named one of Travel + Liesure’s best 11 pizzas in America.

For those used to scarfing a slice in a cramped city pizzeria, Piecasso is culture shock, located on a stretch of country road a few miles outside of Stowe's city center. Perhaps the best way to reach Piecasso in summer is by bike, using the area's 5.5 mile recreation path which connects Main Street in Stowe with Piecasso's back door, along the West Branch River. There's a turn-off sign on the trail in case you miss the smell from kitchen and ample space for bicycle parking out front.

Given the name and the number of gimmicky pies (the Tree hugger, the Heart Stopper...) on the menu, I was worried Piecasso might be a bit tourist-trappy, so we skipped the overstuffed, cleverly-named fare for the simple Pomodoro Bianco ($13-$20.25). In this case, less definitely was more: the mix of white garlic olive oil, fresh mozzarella, fresh basil, plum tomatoes, and minced fresh garlic were blended perfectly. The crust achieved just the right balance of airy and chewy, it’s edges slightly charred, but not burned. Perhaps the ultimate test: it held up well despite the copious amount of olive oil. All ingredients are locally-sourced whenever possible (pretty much a given in a state with such a strong farm-to-plate movement) and it showed in the flavor.

While this is not a beer blog, a good ale and pizza are inextricably linked for most people. In this regard, Piecasso did not disappoint with Burlington's excellent Switchback Unfiltered Ale on tap.

When in Stowe, don’t miss pedaling over to Piecasso.

-- Brett Essler

You’ll Always Know Your Neighbor: Lock City Pizza

After a few weeks of sweltering summer weather, it’s great to get out of New York City to the small towns where things of value are actually made: breezes, products other than iPhone apps and complicated financial derivatives, waves from strangers.

It is also a swell way to remember that pizza is supposed to be an inexpensive, utilitarian food, not a fetish object. Something your parents picked up on a Friday night after a week spent slogging in a smoke-filled office and rotating through ground beef-derived dinners (meatloaf with ketchup, softball-size hamburger patties bleeding through white buns, Ortega taco mix, spaghetti with Ragu meat sauce).

In short, however many “fancy” pizzas one eats, the pies of their hometown always hold a special place in their stomach.

Growing up in Lockport, NY, a small town just north of Buffalo on the banks of the Erie Canal, we were lucky to have two great pizzerias: Lock City Pizza (it’s former moniker, Pontillo's, is still the name of choice for many locals) and Pizza Oven. Both establishments, it has been relayed to me by out-of-town friends I have tried to convert, are an acquired taste.

Pizza Oven's sauce is almost sickeningly sweet, it's thin crust oily and crisp. Before my metabolism slowed to a crawl I used to eat this stuff by the metric ton, which likely contributed to one of the worst complexions Lockport High School has ever witnessed. The Oven has recently changed hands and the next time I’m in the 'Port, I'll be stopping in for some nostalgia and a large pie.

If a scientific poll of Lockportians were conducted, Lock City/Pontillo's would likely be named "Best Pizza" or "Best pizza when you are home visiting your parents" or "pizza place most likely to show up in one of those 'You Know You're from Lockport when...' e-mail forwards." One measure of your Lockportianness was the manner in which you ordered your Pontillo’s crust: quarter-baked, half-baked, and so on. That quirk aside, I always Lock City it for its lack of small town charm: jaw-breakingly tough crust, spartan tomato sauce (made from canned Contadina’s, or so my father reports after some dumpster investigation), staff surliness, ridiculously long waits. Twenty years removed, I appreciate Lock City that much more and applaud them for doing what they do: making pies, rather than Tweeting or churning their own Artisanal cheese curds from grass-fed goats.

Lock City’s is not a “stand-up” pie. The crust requires a certain hand-eye-mouth coordination to master and the toppings tend to pool into a mush in the center and the pies are sliced seemingly at random for a variety of shapes and sizes. Processed mozzarella is the norm in these parts, but the sauce hues towards a more traditional canned tomato, salt, and olive oil blend, rather than the typical Western New York sugar and tomato paste heavy sauces.

The result? A pie that refreshingly doesn’t quite fall into a neat category and is quite spectacular in small doses. Next time you’re in Lockport, bring your appetite. I will try and convert you.

-- Brett Essler

A Perfect Pizza Grows in Brooklyn: Totonno's Pizzeria Napolitano

It's a summer day in New York City and we've got several hours before we need to return the rental car. Normal people might hit the beach or a remote park in search of a respite from the city's oppressive heat. Not my wife and I. It's off to Midwood, Brooklyn and one the borough's most popular and controversial pizzerias, DiFara Pizza. What was once a small, neighborhood pizza joint has in recent years been transformed into a foodie favorite with two-hour queues and $5.00 slices, much to the derision of locals who now find themselves fighting camera-wielding food bloggers for a taste.

So, it was with some surprise when we rolled up to DiFara's and saw no line at what would be the beginning of the dinner shift (6-9 p.m.). Had we found the sweet spot, a rare Saturday with no long wait? Unfortunately not.

"We'll [sic] closed Saturday for oven repair," the sign read. (One way to avoid making that mistake again? Follow DiFara Pizza on Twitter.)

Disappointed, but undeterred, my wife suggested we make our way down Coney Island Avenue to New York's oldest operating pizzeria, Totonno's Pizzeria Napolitano. It turned out to be a great choice.

Photo: bee721

Founded in 1924 by Anthony "Totonno" Pero, Totonno's uses only the finest ingredients: "tomatoes imported from Italy, handmade mozzarella cheese, and dough which is made daily" on premises. In fact, when the dough runs out, the doors are shut for the day. Sidelined by a fire last year, Totonno's re-opened in May 2010 and I'm happy to report the quality of the product is unchanged (as evidenced by the long line on a Saturday evening, many in in the neighborhood to check out a Dead-related show at the ballpark).

One of the benefits of the wait at Totonno's is you get to watch the pizziolo in action and observe the process:

• The dough is stretched rather casually, but there is no show-offy tossing
• Fresh mozzarella goes on first and sauce is ladled on top
• A light sprinkling of Parmesan is added as a finish

Totonno's is bare bones. There is a large pie ($19.50) and a small one ($16.50), though the waitress told us only large was available that night. A small list of toppings is listed on the wall at $2.50 each but we opted for the plain pie. Coca-Cola is served in good, old-fashioned small bottles and there are ice-cold bottled beer (Bud and Brooklyn Lager), which really soothes legs tired from standing on the sidewalk.

Unlike some authentic Neapolitan pies, Totonno's crust is only slightly charred and has a great, smoky coal-oven flavor. With the addition of the Parmesan cheese that gets browned on the crust, it may have be the most perfect crust I've ever tasted. Because the cheese goes on first, the sauce doesn't soak through and weaken the crust, so these slices are made for picking up and eating with minimal effort or mess. The sauce, my wife noted, is the "perfect combination of sweet and tangy."

One element missing is a sprig of basil, but that can be forgiven, as Totonno's pizza did not disappoint on any level. It was well worth the drive and the wait for a pie that has come as close to perfection as I've ever experienced.

Photo: h-bomb

Welcome back, Totonno's!

— Brett Essler

Can't You Hear Me Knockin'? Artichoke Challenges for NYC Pizza Top Honor

Artichoke Basille's Pizza & Brewery (or simply Artichoke) opened in 2008 to raves from the food press, celebrity fans (Keith Richards apparently was inspired to play air guitar in response to the artichoke and spinach pie, to which my first reaction was Keith Richards eats? I had assumed he stuck to a strict diet of cigarettes and scotch.) and long lines. Founded by cousins Francis Garcia and Sal Basille, who cut their teeth at their family restaurant Basille's in Staten Island, Artichoke has quickly found it itself at the top of many of the city's "Best Pizza" lists, often neck and neck with Brooklyn's DiFara.

Tucked into a tiny East Village storefront (14th St. between 1st and 2nd), patrons cram in to order four available types of slices: margherita, Sicilian, artichoke and spinach, and crab. There is tiny ledge (below a creepy, very toothy painting of the Kennedy brothers) to eat, but most choose to eat on the sidewalk. There is beer on tap, but with no seats, drinking and eating at the same time seems difficult. Also available are some appetizers, such as stuffed artichokes, but the reason for visiting Artichoke is the slices.

So, does it live up to the hype? I'd say yes; though the crust is not the best, the toppings are across-the-board excellent. Is it New York's best? Not for this pizza lover to say as I've hardly tried every noted pizzeria across the five boroughs, but I will say without reservation is that Artichoke has quickly become the pizzeria that I have returned to most often. The slice reviews below are from three visits, across several months.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/daned/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Margherita (Regular) and Crab

My first visit was long after the opening hype had dissipated, though the crowd was still sizable for a crisp fall afternoon. I've always thought a margherita is a good first introduction to a pizzeria — if they can't get that right, it does not bode well for their other, more complex pies. Artichoke's margherita (or, "regular") was just OK on this visit. The sauce is delightfully tangy, the mozzarella fresh and cooked just right. The crust, however, was too burned and a little too thick for my taste; I like a little black in the Neapolitan style, but this seemed excessive.

I was long a detractor of seafood on pizza until I tried a delicious, fresh tuna pizza in Sicily a few years back. Now open to the idea, I dug into Artichoke's crab pizza and was not disappointed. The crab and mozzarella was well-blended; the "fishiness" of the crab was pitch perfect. My only complaint would be that crust was so thick it seemed overwhelmed the topping flavors, which were perhaps spread a bit too think to compensate. Maybe a little less dough would help this slice. (Or perhaps some pineapple! I kid.)

While neither slice rated a perfect, both were very tasty and the experience felt very "New York" — eating outside next to a chain link fence watching East Village hipsters walk their dogs. Based on the quality of the toppings and the unique charm of Artichoke I vowed to return.

Artichoke and Spinach

For my second visit I tackled the the artichoke and spinach slice, which is the signature pie here and it is not for the faint of heart (online reviews have spanned the spectrum from "ethereal" to "disgusting"). My partner-in-pizza described the slice as a "heart attack waiting to happen" and it is admittedly one of the most unhealthy looking pizzas I have seen since a Chicago deep dish adventure several years ago I'm only just bouncing back from. Where to start? While waiting for our slices, I saw one of the pizzioli stirring a thick cream sauce in a plastic tub. That creamy concoction (which apparently includes liberal amounts of butter and some white wine; it basically resembles a vat of Alfredo sauce) along with a mush of artichokes, spinach and some cheese make up a slice that can barely be contained by the crisp crust. Admittedly, it's a bit rich given the size of Artichoke's slices, but for a few bites it's a delicious mix of flavors. If you have an engagement after eating or are far from a safe place to nap, I'd recommend holding off on this one.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/wallyg/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Sicilian

On my previous visit to Artichoke, I saw several slices of the Sicilian get passed across the counter and briefly toyed with the idea of ordering one in addition to the artichoke and spinach slice. Cooler heads prevailed and I returned later to sample the thicker, square Sicilian. Because of the inclement weather, I was able to get a pretty good sight line as the pizzioli prepared the Sicilian, first baking the crust, tomato sauce and mozzarella. After it's sufficiently browned, it's removed from the oven, at which point fresh basil and a pecorino and Parmigiano-Reggiano mix is added before being sent back to the oven.

The result was so delicious — the perfect mix of tangy and sharp, sweet and savory — that I gladly ate outside in a cold drizzle. Since the slices are square, they are slightly more manageable and ordering two is not out of the question for someone with a healthy appetite. The crust retains the crispness and holds up well beneath the prodigious cheese topping. It was one of my most satisfying pizza experiences in recent memory.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bee721/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

— Brett Essler

In the Co. of (Possible) Celebrities

Depending on your outlook, New Yorkers have a way of either improving an already good thing (cultural attitudes about smoking and trans fat, public parks) or fetishizing it beyond ridiculousness (pretty much anything else).

At a Midwestern county fair, a deep-fried Snickers bar may set you back a dollar. In the West Village, one could order the same delicacy, though it would arrive wrapped in Artisanal bacon and paired with seasonal, locally grown arugula for $25. And they wonder why they’re hated.

The same could be said for New York’s pizza. The thought of a “New York slice” reminds me of my first visits to the city, wandering around the East Village, drunk, inhaling triangular globs of grease and flour-dusted crust from a paper plate. Those slices still exist (and some can still be enjoyed for a dollar ), but the New York pizza of today occupies a rarefied air of dictates from Naples, fussy toppings and chin-stroking discussions on the burnt index of the crust. Why complicate the perfect street food so easily enjoyed on the go by both inebriated frat guys and stylish Italians on scooters? Because we can.

It’s through that lens we look at Co. (because who has time to type out Company in a text message), Jim Lahey’s recently opened Chelsea pizzeria. Lahey, of Sullivan Street Bakery, has extended his “no-knead” dough to the pizza arena to great fanfare, as well some derision. On the plus side, the pizza is excellent: creative, delicious and conversation-sparking. The downside? It’s expensive; perhaps prohibitively so if your pizza budget is less than, say, $50 a week. Somewhere an accountant is laughing at the mark up.

Critics have also taken aim at the space, a woodsy, communal echo chamber that seeks to join rustic, big family Italian dinner with minimalist upscale bistro. How much you’ll enjoy this room depends on your comfort-level with sharing menu tips with other customers, screaming to be heard over the din, and sucking your gut in to squeeze through the aisles on the way out to avoid bumping into a thin person who you may or may not be a celebrity. A small bar area offers a thoughtful selection of beer and wine — no corks, apparently — to soften the wait (no reservations, thank you); on our recent visit we hunkered down with a growler of Six Point Sweet Action (possibly my favorite beer) even if the “the growler is cheaper than four pints” sales pitch was a bit aggressive.

What about the ’za? The menu is quick to point out that your pizza may “not always be round,” which is either a self-conscious tactic to take your eye off the ball (“I can’t believe this pizza cost $20, but at least it’s not round!”) or a warning to someone who accidentally wandered into Co. thinking it was California Pizza Kitchen. That caveat out of the way, the pizza was uniformly excellent. Served as four-slice “personal” pies, these little buggers are great for sharing with a small group or crushing as a solo act.

Our neighbor to the right, a gregarious sort, derided the Margherita and praised the Popeye we ordered. The Margherita arrived first and impressed, but it was only with the arrival of more complex pies that I understood why it might have been so quickly dismissed despite its quality. The Popeye put to shame any notions of the overly-garlicky “white” Popeye pies you may remember; here wilted spinach was piled atop a mix of buffalo mozzarella (from Di Palo’s on the Lower East Side), Gruyère, and Pecorino cheese. The cauliflower pie featured finely-chopped florets with green olives, béchamel, and blend of buffalo mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses. Our fourth pie — the Flambe — also featured béchamel, buffalo mozzarella and Parmesan, this time with a topping of lardon that had the vegetarians among us considering a jump onto the meat wagon (in case the mere thought of eating ham has Karmic implications, it should be mentioned that Co.’s salads were also excellent).

Like a typical New Yorker, Lahey does try to re-invent the pizza wheel a little more than may be necessary, eschewing the typical trappings of everyone’s favorite food and, in the process, alienating some of both the Napoletani purists and those who think pizza should be simple street or bar food. In putting some aside preconceived notions about what a pizza should be, along with a healthy portion of your paycheck, Co. is worth a visit.

— Brett Essler

Related links

Official Co. Web site

New Yorker review

Jim Lahey Pontificates on Pizza

For Pizza, Thinking Outside the Circle

Company Man: Jim Lahey reveals his recipe for no-knead pizza dough

Comrades in Arms: A who’s who of pizzaioli