25 best pizzas around the country

In searching for the twenty-five best pizzas in America, I traveled to ten American cities, the ones I knew had a lot of pizzerias or a lot of Italians. They seem to go together, although less so anymore. I visited 109 pizzerias and ate 386 pies, although almost never the whole thing. (Remember, I couldn’t finish a single slice of the stuffed.) I know what you’re thinking: You didn’t visit my favorite pizzeria. You missed the best.

I was forced to be merciless about this, because everybody I know has one of those, and everybody believes his is unsurpassed. In essence, a beloved pizzeria is almost always about memories. From friends I heard such claims as “Taking the first bite is to know perfection”…“Every bite is a party in your mouth”… “It has Italian authenticity”… “It is blissful in its crunchiness and perfect chew”… And so it went. There is no way of dealing with such devotion, so I decided to answer all demands that I visit an adored pizzeria with the same irrefutable (if unjust) reply: “No, I am not going to your pizzeria. Your pizzeria is no good.” In fact, on the few occasions when I was so badgered by a friend that I went to one of them, it was no good. Not one prepared a commendable crust.

I include in the list of failed favorites two pizzerias beloved by President Obama: Italian Fiesta in Chicago’s Lake Park plaza (takeout only, so I ate on the trunk of my rental car) and Casa Bianca in Eagle Rock, California, near Occidental College, where he went to school. The pies at both had hard, bland crusts that didn’t look or taste handmade. Out of respect to our president, who has enough problems, I will leave it at that.

Within each of the ten cities, I ranged far. In New York, where I went to thirty-three pizzerias, I ate in every one of the five boroughs, and I ventured deep into the suburb of Westchester, where I live. (I briefly left the state to visit nearby spots in New Jersey but had no success there.) During my tour of Philadelphia, I journeyed to as distant a land as Trenton, New Jersey. (Again, no luck.) In Detroit I drove nearly 500 miles, a consequence of the local pizza diaspora. Phoenix was easy — there’s precisely one pizzeria, Bianco, that anybody recognizes as worth visiting. I would happily have broken my rule and gone to any other personal favorite — but nobody had one.

I tried Polish pizza in Chicago (not bad, except for the nearly raw egg on top), Indian pizza in San Francisco (pretty good, although reheated chicken dries out badly, despite the tikka masala sauce), Turkish pizza in New York (invariably called “pitza” and, because it’s made with pita dough, rather crackly), and Korean pizza in Los Angeles. (The Korean-style Hanchi Gold pie was topped with spicy bean paste, sweet-potato mousse, ground beef, onion, bell pepper, olives, corn, mushrooms, edamame, jalapeño, bacon, Cheddar cheese, marinated calamari, sour cream, garlic, and parsley, and when you have that much piled on, it’s hard to tell the potato mousse from the sour cream.)

Dark side of the pie
Overaccessorizing was far from the worst problem I encountered. There is a dark side to the triumph of the American pie.

Interactive map Where’s the best slice of pie? See which states GQ editor Alan Richman thinks has the best pizza.

Pizza has become the gourmet food of the recession, and the men who create these pies consider themselves artists — narcissistic, reclusive artists, at that. I’ve told you about Margherita DOC. These eccentrics specialize in Pizza OCD, bringing obsessive-compulsive disorders to the once simple business of making pies.

They often refuse to take reservations, thus guaranteeing themselves long lines of worshippers. Their primary weirdness, however, is preparing not quite enough dough for the day ahead so they might turn away the last few desperate customers. Even if they are doing this to ensure freshness, as they claim, they could rely on a practice perfected in modern times that would enable them to never run out of dough — it’s known as refrigeration. Or they could prepare more than enough, but that would create the possibility that a ball or two of the dough that they love more than their customers would have to be thrown out.

These guys find multiple ways of being annoying. At Pizzeria Bianco, a friend and I ordered four pies that we shared with the people who had stood in line with us for more than an hour. Still hungry, I tried to order a fifth, but I was cut off like a roaring drunk in an American Legion hall, told that I had reached my limit. At a pizzeria (I do not recommend) in Chicago, I was informed when I called that I had to order ahead of time, although there is no menu on the restaurant Web site and the lady on the telephone refused to tell me what pies were available. Pizzerias now inhabit a space once occupied by snooty French restaurants, and they are smug, too. One pizzeria in Brooklyn (I do not recommend) lets you know that its pork is sustainable, its beef grass-fed, its eggs organic, and its grease converted into biofuel. (If only as much attention had been given to crusts.)

Secrets of the trade
I have a final thought: ovens. Uniform and very high heat produces the best pies, which is why coal ovens have rightfully been so respected. The coal adds little to the taste, and in fact a retired pizzamaker in New York City, Sal Petrillo, now in his eighties, told me a secret of the trade. He said that at the old Frank’s on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, where he worked with his brother Frank for twenty years, the most important person was the guy who moved the pies around the coal-fired oven. He made certain they were evenly cooked.

A wood-burning oven, in particular the very smoky one at Pizzeria Bianco, can add a pleasant (if superficial) aroma, but I don’t believe wood is behind glorious crusts. Gas and electricity frequently do as well. At Tacconelli’s in Philadelphia, the oven is heated with oil. The truth is that great pizzas aren’t made by great ovens; they’re made by great cooks.

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