Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

It was a grim, gray, dull, lazy Saturday here on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. One of those brutal New York days, where the air is thick with the musty odors of the city hanging in humid air. The city is aching to breathe, praying for rain and continuously waiting for the respite to come. It was the perfect day for a field trip.

As the rain finally starts to fall around noon, James, Megan and I make our way into the 4 train. We have decided to get out of the Upper East and make our way to Brooklyn, to one of the centers of food world. I know, leaving Manhattan for good food seems like a crime. Dominic DeMarco makes your trip to Midwood, Brooklyn worth the trip, however.

James and I have been planning this excursion for years. Ever since we first heard from our songwriting hero Mike Doughty of his love for Di Fara Pizza, we have always wanted to try it out. The humble pizzeria had grown in our minds over the years to almost mythic proportions. Di Fara is revered both in and outside of the foodie community, especially amongst the pizza cognoscenti, and we felt that we needed to see it ourselves.

But we had always put it off. I mean, Midwood, Brooklyn might as well be on the far side of the moon. It takes forever to get there and the only real highlights even nearby are Brighton Beach or Coney Island. It literally defines the Bowels of Brooklyn. The time had come, however, because recent life events have dictated a move to the West Coast for yours truly (more on that in the afterword to this post) and with Dominic not getting any younger, we finally pulled the trigger.

So, hot, tired, hungover and hungry, we set off. After the change to the Q train at Union Square, it still took another 35 minutes to get to 14th Street and Avenue J in Midwood. As the skies opened up, we could not believe our luck. In this baptismal experience in pizza culture, the massive rains falling over Brooklyn may help keep the crowds down, and keep our waiting to a minimum.

We ran across 15th Street towards the giant "PIZZA" sign noting the small Di Fara outpost. As we burst into the cramped, blazing hot shop, we immediately took notice of the slower pace of life here. The signs on the wall don't lie. It's worth the wait.

After about five minutes, Dominic's assistant took my order: 1 regular cheese pie, to stay. He asked my name. That was the end of our transaction and conversation. He went back to work assisting the great master in his craft, shaving fresh mozzarella, refilling his sauce bowl, bringing new dough out for Dominic to craft his signature dish.

Dominic is clearly a man of advanced age. He is covered head to toe in flour. Bent slightly at the middle of his back from years of reaching and shaping and massaging and punching and spreading and saucing. He uses few tools: one wooden paddle to insert the pie, one metal paddle to remove the pie and serve, a box grater, a fine grater, a ladle, two oil cans, and a pair of scissors. Most important are his hands, worn into prime dough shaping position from more than a half century of work, calloused, burned, arthritic. These are the hands of a grand master, hands that can tell in one touch of the crust if a pie is done, hands that will reach into a 600 degree oven again and again to remove and reshape pies, hands that have the muscle memory and instinct all their own to make a perfect pie.

I watch him, studying him for almost 45 minutes. Finally he starts working on my pizza. He quickly shapes the ball of dough into a thing sheet, slightly oblong rather than circular, and covers it in flour. He then spreads out his own tomato sauce made fresh that day from rich, sweet San Marzano tomatoes. He then reaches for a loaf of fresh mozzarella and his box grater, shaving long, thick slices of the cheese over the pie. A final dose of extra virgin olive oil and the pie loaded onto the wooden plank and shoved into the oven. And the process repeats itself. Over and over and over again. And the line forms anew and more orders are given, and more people wait and watch and ready themselves.

Finally after about 12 minutes the pizza is ready. Dominic reaches into one of the two ovens (he can only cook four pizzas at a time, hence the wait) and grabs the pizza, sometimes with the metal paddle, sometimes with his bare hands and places it on a metal pie pan. He then tops it immediately with finely shaven mozzarella (not fresh, think more like string cheese mozzarella), fresh oregano which he cuts with his scissors and a final dose of olive oil. He asks whose pizza it is, shouting initials or a name written by his sous chef.

You give him your $20 and run to one of the few tables in the little shop. You want so desperately, after waiting what seems like forever in anticipation (in our case, we only waited about 45 minutes or so), to just rip into the beautiful delicious, bubbling, oozing pie. But you control yourself, if only for a moment, knowing that the charred dough and boiling cheese and creamy sauce are still white hot. But you remember, good things come to those who wait.

Finally, you can't control yourself anymore. You tear into the first slice. It is sloppy, gooey, hard to hold or control, even harder to cool down.

But then you taste the work of the grand master and it all melts away.

Pizza is delightfully simple, but when put together in the right way, with the right ingredients it is absolutely the greatest substance ever created by mankind. In Dominic's case, he has found the perfect blend of the ingredients. And his time tested methods and his personal skill and know-how allow him to create the perfect pie.

As James, Megan and I sat, briefly to take in the immensity of wonderful tastes and smells and experiences we had just borne witness to, we were awash in realizations about pizza and life and other things of import. There is no place on Earth like Di Fara. After Dominic is gone, hopefully not for many years, the little, cramped space at 14th and J will fade into the long history of Brooklyn lore, a place lost in time and forever remembered by all those who were there, then. But the memories of a day so long anticipated, and so humbly rewarding will remain forever.

Go to Di Fara for yourself. See the grand master and working class hero work. Smell the air. And yes, taste the pizza. And remember, good things come to those who wait.

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AFTERWORD

So yes, it has been a while. I have recommitted myself to this blog (famous last words) and intend to write a lot more about the issues we all (read: I) care about (the election, baseball, food and wine). The last couple months have been rough, but I'm happy to say that come the end of June I am off on a new journey in my life, taking up residence in the City by the Bay. Friends on the west coast be advised, and friends elsewhere, come visit anytime!