Not to overdo the topic of pizza, but as a New York defector I must say that I’ve only once had pizza outside of the city that falls under the category of “tolerable.”
Today at work, eight boxes of the stuff arrived to feed interns, editors and ad reps alike. This week’s issue is a triple press run, which means that nobody can leave the office and everybody is in a bad mood. It also means that we get free lunch.
I was thrilled. I love pizza. But in true west-of-the-Hudson form, the dough-and-cheese combo failed to satisfy my picky Manhattan tastebuds. The crust tasted too much like bread; the cheese was just, well, wrong. The slices were barely larger than my hands, and my attempt to fold one in half resulted in an avalance of toppings onto my desk. Also, not to pick a bone, but just because we live in New Mexico, must we throw chili peppers on everything?
The only place out here where I have ever had a good slice was a little joint in Colorado Springs called Boriello Brothers. The owner, naturally, was from Brooklyn, and the place was decorated in Yankee paraphernalia. I frequented Boriello Brothers during my college days, and it served a relic to the two things I missed most from my hometown: good pizza and good baseball.
Boriello Brothers pizza, like its New York counterpart, did what all good pizza should do: it folded neatly and evenly; its cheese was thin and perfect; the bottom never cracked in half and the crust didn’t taste like a stale bagel. It was no deep-dish monstrosity like the poor excuse for pizza that Chicago touts and its slices were large enough to be a meal.
It was just good pizza, plain and simple. And trust me, that can be a hard thing to find.