The Q to Brooklyn

There are many things New York is known for - some deserved, some not; some flattering, some not. Amongst the deserved and flattering:

-Great culture and diversity
-Dogs, everywhere dogs!
-World-class shopping and incredible fashion
-Amazing transportation
-Pizza

Amongst the deserved and not-so-flattering:

-Garbage
-Rats
-Rudeness
-Summertime humidity
-That...accent

Undeserved flattery (a.k.a. the lies New Yorkers perpetuate about themselves):

-First and only in everything
-The only "true" city
-Best all-around cuisine

Undeserved unflattery (a.k.a. the lies everyone else perpetuates about New York):

-There isn't really any...I'm afraid all the bad things people say about New York are actually true...

Today's highlight focuses squarely on one of the great deserved New York flatteries: pizza. And we traveled deep into Brooklyn for it (I'm not talking DUMBO, people - believe me, gentrification hasn't quite hit this part of town yet).

For most of my life, I didn't understand the whole pizza phenomenon. Ever heard of Shakey's? Yeah, so growing up, I loved it because of the great chicken wings you could get with the pizza. What did I know?

So I moved through all of the chains, finally reaching a point after college when I could at least criticize Domino's as "quite terrible," really only because I ate so many medium pizzas by myself freshman year I think my body developed an allergy to it as a life-saving mechanism. And up until this past June when I first experienced New York's delicacy, I enjoyed San Francisco's North Beach Pizza, even stooping so low as to order "barbecue chicken pizza." Only now do I realize how horrifying that is.

Let's flash back to June for a moment. Brad and I came to New York for a few days, and he insisted we make a far trip to Brooklyn for "the best pizza ever." We went with a couple of other guys, and the whole time, I wondered why on earth I was on the world's longest subway ride to get to some place for lunch as the doors opened, to avoid what I'd been told over and over again was a "hellacious line." A line - for pizza? Really? A dough disc covered in cheese and tomato sauce and stuff? Really? When we exited the subway, we were in some random part of town, and the pizzeria on the corner that was apparently our point of destination was even more random. What happened there was a religious experience I won't dwell on, because this is supposed to be about today...not three months ago...but suffice it to say I've been on a mad hunt for the taste of this pizza since then, and tonight was no disappointment.

There were three of us this time, and the scheme was elaborate: meet in Union Square, take the Q out to Avenue J in Brooklyn, and hope for a line on a Wednesday night that would take no more than an hour.

We accomplished that part of the mission, and found ourselves ordering at the counter in no more than 15 minutes. Now we just had to wait for the 70-year-old man to make our pizza (orders are only taken as quickly as he can prepare the pies), with the assistance only of his son...barely.

Now, bear in mind, there are no frills here, and certainly no system. The number of chairs does not accommodate the number and size of tables; there are no receipts upon payment because there is no cash register; drinks come from a fridge at the front of the restaurant that requires the honor system; and there's a bucket at the front door to collect dripping water from the air conditioner. The process of getting your pizza involves standing elbow-to-elbow with others at the counter, all trying to stake claim to whatever comes out of the oven. You order plain? No matter. If a five-topping pie lands on the counter, it might be yours. The owner who's also the chef who's also the waiter cannot be bothered with such details.

But oh, when you finally sit down with the delicious goodness...olive oil pooling over the fresh mozzarella and parmesan...large leaves of basil clipped fresh from the garden in the window sill; crust brick oven-thin but bready enough for those who like a little dough...you don't care that you're eating on a card table that hasn't been wiped down in years; or that it's smoky and your eyes are burning from the coal-fired oven. All you care (and hope) is that you're not going to have to fight over the last piece.

And so it was with full bellies that we got back on the Q to Manhattan, all the while planning our next trip before we head back west.

Thank you, New York.