STEPHEN LYLE

Video of Di Fara’s Pizza, Ave J, BrooklynJust back from a trip to the mythic Di Fara’s Pizza out in Brooklyn.  Ineffable is the word we are looking for. Was it that we had to wait 45 minutes in the cold, along with 50 other people on a Sunday night in February? Is it the olive oil the old maestro puts on everything? Twice.  No, I think it might be the bales of basil he snips onto every pizza right before you eat it. Wait, actually it’s the additional 40 minutes that pass before you actually get your pizza (a “DiFara classic” which is a smokingly singed crust rectangle of sausage, red onion and a drier mozzarella). No wait – it’s the sauce – very reduced and intense, wonderfully salty. No again – it’s the matchless decor (see video) and the way the maestro’s son weaves respectfully around the father, never interfering. No one touches the pizza but the father, lifting them out of the oven with his bare hands. The crust is crispy all the way through, just the slightest bit sweet, and always charred. But then possibly it’s the silent crowd waiting behind you, vying politely for the four tables, watching with a mixture of happy anticipation and jealous agony as you bite into yours, knowing how far off their own moment of deliverance still is,  yet confident in the unswerving certainty that nothing could keep them from it.