Oddest dining experience yesterday: DiFara’s pizza, in the depths of Brooklyn (I don’t even know what that neighborhood is called, but Avenue J is the stop on the Q). This place is one of those hallowed Chowhound “finds,” where an aged specialist mystically prepares transcendant, genre-defining examples of a given food, and disciple diners look on in awe and reverence.
Too much awe and reverence in this case, but not because the pizza didn’t deserve it. All because the atmosphere is so weirdly charged by the fetishists. The physical setup is fine–standard-issue counter-type pizza joint with two soda cases and a couple of tables, uninspiring menus tacked on the wall. Don’t run your white-gloved finger over the frame on the Piazza di Navona poster, or put your sleeve down on a table. Just walk in and get in line. Behind four or five other people. Then stand there, in utter silence, and watch the guy make the pizza. There’s no music. There’s no chit-chat. Occasionally there are whispered comments about technique, decor and do-you-think-he-got-our-order-right. A few more neighborhoody guys just ordering slices are sort of jocular, but the overwhelming pall of silence eventually hushes them too.
We got our order in, in a weird informal way–the guy turned toward the counter, leaning forward to grab something, and Peter caught his eye and muttered, “Whole pie with garlic and artichokes.” It felt a little like when you’re forcing a drink order on a bartender who’s trying to ignore you because she’s currently too swamped to take your order.
Because all this guy does, all day I guess, is make pizza. When his back is turned, everyone at the counter seems to lean forward to watch his technique, soaking up all the details: big ladle of tomato sauce, swirled out thin; provolone grated with a hand grater in thick slices, laid out quick; fresh mozzarella torn up in shreds; generous toppings, from a bowl brought out from the back by a young assistant according to each pie order. You’d think he’d have his mise en place down after forty-odd years, but he doesn’t seem concerned with all the extra shuffling and reaching, and even climbing on a box of tomato cans to look in the top pizza oven. And perhaps it’s the lack of prep that makes the pizza so good.
But then he turns around, to bring a molten pie to the counter, and everyone pulls back, pretending to be involved in their own business–“What soda did you get?”, “I’ve got a twenty here,” etc.–like they weren’t just panting down this guy’s neck a few seconds before. It’s respectful, but so strained.
The pizza was delicious–a little moist in the middle because some of the artichokes sweated a bit, but still that old-time, simple New York pizza flavor of not-too-fancy cheese and really good sauce, and crispy crust. But all the while I was eating (second slice, yes please…oh heck, a third piece…and what’s that bit of artichoke?…) I just couldn’t help wondering if the guy gets lonely back there.