“Just walk back there, Jeff.” Beth insisted. She and husband Barry are New York natives (now our neighbors) who’d joined us on this part of our vacation and recommended we go down to Little Italy for pizza at Lombardi’s. Beth was responding to my desire to see the coal-fired oven that makes – what everybody seems to agree is - America’s best pizza. “They will be happy to show you…I’m sure of it” I bravely rose from my seat and walk toward the back of our country’s first pizzeria. At the end of the hall, a group of young ladies in white shirts stood waiting to deliver pies. I caught the eye of their boss. “May I help you?” he asked. I cleared my throat and stammered: “Uh…just wanted to see your oven?” He smiled and waved me in. The kitchen looked like everything I’d hoped for in an authentic New York pizzeria – brick, steel, tiles that looked a hundred years old. I was consumed by the pungent aroma of tomato sauce, fresh dough, and burning coal. Half a dozen young men busily, carefully, and proudly prepared lucious-looking pies. I raised my camera as one opened the heavy door to the famous oven. He stopped and posed for me after inserting his long-handled flat shovel. “He’s got a Face book, you know.” one of the waitresses giggled. “Yes, I’m quite famous.” He added, flexing his bicep for another photo. For a moment my focus of envy changed – from wishing I could spend my days making great pizza, to wishing I could work in this happy environment. Back at our table, our Margarita pizza arrived. It was perfect – the way peasant Napoleon women first prepared it – all about the crust, with simple toppings. Ours had garlic-intense tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella slices – that’s it. One bite and I appreciated its simplicity. These minimal (yet flavorful) toppings don’t compete with the crust, rather complement it. My taste buds delighted in the perfect balance of chewy-ness and crunchy-ness. Good food, good friends, and good atmosphere. This experience was truly once-in-a lifetime.
