Last night, H and I wandered pretty much randomly* into the latest pizza lovers’ obsession, Una Pizza Napoletana. The menu is suicidal. There are exactly four food items, all pizzas. No appetizers, no sides, no desserts. The choices are: Margherita (plain), Marinara (no cheese), Bianco (no sauce), or Filetti (with cherry tomatoes instead of sauce). No slices, no toppings, no substitutions. A basically-individual 12-inch pie is $21 (ouch), any variety. There is a similarly limited and uniformly-priced list of wines and beers, which are served lukewarm in a plain drinking glass.
So the pizza better be pretty fucking good, right? Well… it is. Pretty fucking good. Perfect crust: crunchy, chewy, salty, etc. Nicely balanced sauce, nice cheese, fresh basil. Not my favorite pizza in the entire world, which is still either Di Fara in Midwood (a moment of silence…) or Vito’s Pizza of Hamilton, NJ, which was for me like mother’s milk. Still, damn good.
But… can we cut the crap? I’ve had una pizza Napoletana. In Napoli. And they have toppings. Nice toppings. Like arugula and prosciutto. Or artichokes. Or ricotta.
I mean, for fuck’s sake, people, loosen up. You’re doing good work. Now give me some ice cream.