Editor's note: Slice correspondent Philip G. checks in with an answer to a question I've had for a long, long time. —Adam K.
Well, Adam, it's this:
A nice little story on CNN about Old Forge, Pennsylvania, and its claim on being the "Pizza Capital of the World":
We head out of Scranton, Pennsylvania, toward Old Forge, population approximately 10,000. In about 10 minutes we're driving down Main Street. I start counting the pizza cafés, as they call them here: Rinaldi's, Brutico's, Arcaro & Genell's, Anthony's, Ghigiarelli's -- 11 on this street alone. Within just a few blocks, there are at least nine more. Even the florist on Main Street is called "Pizzazz."
With a population of 8,798 (June 2006), that's like one pizzeria for every 800 residents. In contrast, New York City (pop. 8,274,527; 2006 census), if you go by the oft-cited 3,000-some pizzerias estimate, would have one pizzeria for every 2,758 residents.
The story still doesn't answer the burning question: What exactly is Old Forge–style pizza? I think there needs to be a Slice field trip.
And they are:
Well, they say 13 is an unlucky number, right? I mean, only one New York City pizzeria on this list? And it's John's? John's is good, sure, but not the best in NYC. And maybe we should hold our tongue until we've had pizza from the Grimaldi's branch in Arizona, but how can it be any better than the homegrown original Grimaldi's? I guess AOL had to tailor its list to please people across the country. And it's further evidence that these lists are always flawed. Heck, even if Slice put out a list, I'm sure someone—lots of someones—would find fault with it. But they're always good for debate, so have at it. Comments welcome.
13 Perfect Pizzas Across America [AOL Cityguide]
They're coming to get you, Barbara. And they're wearing Domino's uniforms. From the Smoking Gun:
According to a police report ... when officers began taking an inventory of the station wagon, they noticed a stretcher in the rear of the vehicle (along with rubbish and wet clothing) where "pizzas were sitting to be delivered." Asked about the items, [William] Bethel explained that when he finished delivering Domino's pizzas, "he transports deceased bodies in the same vehicle for a funeral home."
Thanks to Matt P. in New Brunswick for the link!
Stiffs And Slices: Domino's delivery man transported pizza, corpses in same car [The Smoking Gun]
Here's the American Pizzeria Timeline, which includes only two non–Pizza Belt entries, Tommaso's and Uno's:
1905: Lombardi's, on Spring Street in New York City, is granted the nation's first license to sell pizza.
1910: Joe's Tomato Pies opens in the Trenton, New Jersey, Chambersburg neighborhood.
1912: Papa's Tomato Pies in Trenton opened by Papa, who learned his trade at Joe's.
1924: Anthony (Totonno) Pero leaves Lombardi's and opens Totonno's in Coney Island, New York.
1925: Frank Pepe opens on Wooster Street in New Haven, Connecticut.
You've heard of the corn belt and the rust belt. But what about the Pizza Belt, the part of America that gave birth to what Jeffrey Steingarten calls Neapolitan-American pizza. The Pizza Belt starts in Philadelphia and runs through Trenton and the rest of New Jersey. It extends throughout New York, Long Island, and New Haven and ends in Boston. Think of it as the Interstate 95 belt, with a few detours along the way.
It was in New York that Neapolitan immigrant and grocery store owner Gennaro Lombardi was granted the nation's first Ilcense to sell pizza in 1905. Lombardi's, in turn, spawned Totonno's in 1924 and John's in 1929 and, in an apparently unrelated move, Patsy's in East Harlem in 1933. Joe's Tomato Pies opened in Trenton in 1910, followed by Papa's Tomato Pies in 1912. New Haven was next, where a Neapolitan immigrant Italian bread baker named Frank Pepe opened his eponymous Pizzeria Napoletana in 1925, followed in short order by Paul's Apizza in 1932, State Street Apizza (now called Modern Apizza) in 1934 and finally Sally's in 1938 (founded by Frank Pepe's nephew, Salvatore Consiglio). In Philadelphia, Salvatore and Chiarina Marra opened Marra's in 1927. The Tacconelli family started baking bread in their Port Richmond neighborhood in the 1920s, though they didn't start making pizza until 1946. Similarly, in East Boston, Francisco Santarpio baked bread at his eponymous bakery until Prohibition ended in 1933, when he took over the adjoining storefront and began serving pizza. Seven years before that, Anthony Polcari opened Pizzeria Regina in Boston's North End.
Why did all these pizzerias start in the same 33-year period? What did they have in common? Did Frank Pepe work at Lombardi's before moving to New Haven? Here's what we do know. There was a tremendous wave of southern Italian immigration in the late nineteenth century. These immigrants all came in through Ellis Island, and then fanned out along the Eastern Seaboard looking for work among relatives, neighbors, and friends who had come from the same area in Italy. New York, of course, was where they landed, so it made sense for a certain number of them to look for and find work there. Trenton had hundreds of thousands of manufacturing jobs and a burgeoning Itallan-American community called Chambersburg. New Haven had many factories (including Colt Industries), as well as a plethora of fishing and port-related jobs. Philadelphia (South Philly) and Boston (East Boston and the North End) both had fast-growing Italian-American communities with thriving commercial centers.
What can we conclude from all this? That the development of America's pizza culture closely followed southern Italian immigration patterns. If the southern Italians had come into this country through Duluth, Minnesota might have been known as the Land of a Thousand Pizzas.
Ed Levine is a regular contributor to the New York Times Dining section and is author of New York Eats and New York Eats More. He also maintains a blog: Ed Levine Eats. This entry is an excerpt from his book Pizza: A Slice of Heaven
Words and Photographs by Mark Horowitz, Special to Slice .::. Ninety miles from the Holland Tunnel and 80 miles from the Verazzano-Narrows Bridge, just across the Delaware River from New Jersey, is bucolic Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Long known for its numerous inns and beds and breakfasts, its artists colonies, its meandering riverside drives attracting daytrippers and motorcyclists, and its gay-friendly ambience, gentrification and development have made their marks on the region. With development has come the opening of several notable restaurants. In April, the area saw the opening of Jules Thin Crust in Doylestown, the county seat and its most populous town.
Housed in a spacious building steps from the center of town and featuring indoor and outdoor seating, Jules presents itself as distinctively different from the moment one enters: Posted by the entrance are "Jules Rules," which include the declarations that Jules offers "the world's finest, best-tasting all-natural thin crust pizza," which uses "wholesome, organic ingredients," including "extra-virgin olive oil, imported 00 flour" and "organic and locally grown salad produce." Jules Rules go on to declare that the company is operated in "a manner that enhances the lives of our employees, our customers and our local communities" and that it promotes "work practices that enhance the earth and environment."
The focus of action at Jules is the ordering counter (right), where 18-inch long, thin-crust oval pies with various toppings are set out as soon as they come out of the oven, which is in a rear kitchen. They are sliced into three-inch slices, selling for $2.50 to $3.25 each. After ordering slices, drinks, and salads (Jules is BYO and staff will provide a corkscrew and plastic cups for those bringing wine), customers pay for and pick up their order at one of three registers.
During two recent Friday evening visits, I sampled at least six different toppings and watched the Jules team in action. Jules has become quite popular, and the line at the ordering counter usually extends nearly to the entrance. Although the ordering process goes relatively smoothly, there is usually a bottleneck at the registers, where, apparently, customers must be rung up by the employee who took their order once. This results in needless delays and cooling of pizza.
Jules purchases its tomatoes from New Jersey farmers, its vegetables from Pennsylvania farmers, and its salad greens from a nearby organic farm. The freshness of its product is immediately apparent: Mushrooms, eggplant, zucchini, and spinach were flavorful and nicely complemented the sauce. The sauce was sweet but not sugary and was applied in a layer about equal to the thickness of the slice.
Starting with a plain tomato-basil slice or a mozzarella slice and progressing to a vegetable topped pie seems a natural progression. Our party also enjoyed a greek salad slice, with assorted salad vegetables and feta cheese so densely applied that much of it ended up being eaten with a fork. We also sampled Jules's potato chip pie (see main photo, above), which proved a surprise. The crunch and flavor of the slice was a pleasant diversion. The children in our party enjoyed a dessert slice of chocolate sauce and fresh strawberries.
Jules does not take reservations, and, despite its size, tables fill up. Pies are available for take out. In addition to slices, whole pies can be ordered at the registers.
JULES THIN CRUST
Location: 78 South Main Street, Doylestown PA 18901
Phone: 215-345-8565
Hours: Daily, 11:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. (possibly later, depending)
Price: $2.50 to $3.25 per slice
The Skinny: Long, oval pies ordered in 3-inch increments. Organic, locally grown vegetables and toppings; Tipo "00" flour imported from Italy. Quickly becoming a favorite among Bucks County residents.
WORDS AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY E-ROCK
The Port Authority Bus Terminal gives birth to few good omens. Anyone who spends time there on occasion has a "let's get it over with" attitude because of the lines, the smell, and the facility's confusing layout.
E-Rock was faced with one of those occasions on a recent weekend and tried to make the best of it. I went there after work on Friday to catch a bus to eastern Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley. While waiting for She-Rock to join me for the trip, I headed to the Silver Bullet Saloon, a bar next to the Eighth Avenue entrance, and ordered the $3 Heineken pints on special. After throwing back a few and admiring the chaos of drunken commuters, E-Rock noticed something—the place serves free pizza for happy hour. Granted, the stuff isn't superb, but it can keep you from getting the woozy on the bus ride. It certainly tasted better anything E-Rock thought the Port Authority would spawn, and it beat what many dive bars try to pass off as trail mix.
Would this omen be sign of good fortune for the rest of E-Rock's journey?
We were going to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to visit my grandfather, whose legal name is Pop-Pop. Pop-Pop is kind of a Pennsylvania version of Yogi Berra. Out of nowhere he says things like, "That water is wet" and "The problem with this town is that there's too many old people around." (He's 85.)
Bethlehem was once a major industrial town. Home to Bethlehem Steel (where Pop-Pop was a machinist for something like forty years). The company was the point of origin for many American landmarks, including the George Washington and Golden Gate bridges. The factory, which once employed most of the entire region, started laying off workers in the 1980s and finally closed in the mid '90s. You may recall Billy Joel's '80s ballad Allentown, an ode to the largest city in the area, just a few miles from Bethlehem. The place, economically depressed for years, has recently improved due to flocks of new residents dodging the high housing prices in the New York and Philly metro areas.
Aside from all that, though, it's E-Rock's Hamptons, where he goes to relax and kick back a few Yeungling black and tans in the summer heat on Pop-Pop's front porch.
E-Rock had never bothered to seek out good pizza in the Lehigh Valley, as the area is known mainly for its variations on German food and cheesesteaks, but on his last visit he was determined to find a good slice. E-Rock's research (Chowhound) pointed him to a joint in Allentown called Salvatore Ruffino's Brick Oven Pizza, just east of the city's downtown. E-Rock thought, The place isn't really that far from New York. It's gotta have some good pizza.
Right?
When we pulled into the parking lot, I was instantly disappointed. The restaurant has been around for a while, but it obviously has been through a Nunzio's-esque remodeling, making it look suspiciously snappy. Pop-Pop, who normally eats at the area's many great diners, was a little intimidated: "Geez. I thought we were goin' to an everyday pizza joint. I didn't know you were takin' me to a fancy Italian restaurant." Neither did E-Rock.
When we walked in at 2 p.m. on a Saturday, the place was dead. Not a very promising sign, but it's not like we were dining in SoHo. We were in Allentown.
The air conditioning was blasting so fiercely that She-Rock was close to hypothermia. After we ordered our drinks, she immediately went outside to "check the car" and have a cigarette.
E-Rock figured the best way to test the waters would be by ordering a large pizza marguerita ($16; marinara, fresh mozzarella, basil). She-Rock may have been hitting the bong in the parking lot because she insisted on ordering a large "stuffed" pie—crust on both sides, a more structured form of Travolta's slice on slice action—with mushrooms and onions.
The thin pizza (above) came out quickly. E-Rock didn't have his stopwatch handy, but the timing was comparable to a good brick-oven bake in NYC.
When one has been to the better pizza establishments in New York, analyzing the pies in other cities is tough work. E-Rock's going to call it "The Wilco Problem." Wilco is arguably the best mainstream, country-rock band right now. You can pretty much line them up against any band on commercial radio that practices the genre, if there are even any others. Hands down. But if you've ever listened to Gram Parsons, you'll always long for something more than Wilco.
The crust at Ruffino's was thick, about three Di Fara crusts mashed together, without the proper amount of light scorching you should get from a good brick oven. The sauce popped a little too hard. The mozzarella was nice and creamy, but too chewy.
"Tastes bland," She-Rock hissed.
On a lighter note, the stuffed pie was a disaster, as one would expect. E-Rock despises the practice of eating pizza with a fork, but his many attempts of Pilates-like arm movements to steady the slice from an avalanche of tragedy weren't sufficient. Sigh. Pop-Pop's pronouncement: "It's like spaghetti."
We left, and drove through Allentown's once-vibrant downtown, still burnt out from its years of economic neglect, sporting pawn shops and empty storefronts. But the beautiful, cloudless, summer day cut through the gloom. We went back to Pop-Pop's 'hood, settled into our food comas, and sat on his front porch, enjoying the day, watching senior citizens walk their dogs and unruly teenagers on their way to no good in the sad, imitation punk-rock costumes they bought at a mall. Glorious.
We asked Pop-Pop how he liked the meal. He paused, looking like he was about to say something profound, as if he had just discovered a way to cure the ebola virus.
"I think it was the best pizza I've ever had."
That was enough for E-Rock to happily settle with Wilco.
Back in '98 or so, Where's George appeared on the Web. Its gimmick: Enter your dollar bill's serial number and see where it's been. The site enjoyed a brief period of semifame, garnering mentions on various local news broadcasts and in the "Cool Sites" columns of midsize daily papers, and then faded from the collective consciousness just as fast. (People were spending money too quickly to care where it had come from.) I, too, had forgotten about the site until spotting this piece in the Chicago Tribune. Turns out Pino, a pizza deliveryman in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, is one of the site's top users.
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