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It’s one of
those strange twists of fate that you spend nearly twenty days in
Italy, wandering through Napoli, Sicily, Roma, and Venice in search
of a good pie, a good slice—only to come home and find the best pie
within easy walking distance. Of course, it helps that the home
turf is crammed with Italians, many of whose ancestors were probably
accustomed to living along the water—say, the Amalfi coast, or the
Italian Riviera—and to the need for a good pizza pie after a day
spent on the beach.
Upon entering
Fratelli La Bufala (FLB) beneath the neon yellow buffalo horns
(think mozzarella la bufala), the first thing you notice
about the dining room is the large wood-burning oven which occupies
nearly a third of the back wall—with the pizza man’s station
directly in front. Red-clothed tables are positioned so you can
watch it all: the domes of pizza dough on tin pans, the stretching,
the pulling, the sauce, the cheese—and then into the oven. A series
of choreographic movements with which we’re all fondly familiar.
And yet, when
this pizza arrives at your table—no, even before—when you see it
pulled from the oven—there’s something about the perfectly charred
crust—and the aroma from the cloves of garlic—and the marinara
sauce. Most of all, it’s in the dough: slightly salty, perfectly
chewy—and that charred and blistered crust. This is pizza pie crust
as it was meant to be served, way back when Napoli gave its gift to
the world. How many times have you ordered a pizza pie—and left
better than half the crust on your plate? Won’t happen here—this is
crust perfect for soaking up that last spot of marinara—and then
another piece drizzled with extra virgin olive oil. One last bit of
crust—to keep the taste on your palate—before you return again.
And next time
you’ll know: why head to Napoli—when Fratelli La Bufala is right
around the corner.
Best always,
Mark and Robert
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