Embarking on a Pizza Pilgrimage in Brooklyn, NYC
The sign, worn by time and weather reads “Di Fara Pizza” and you know you’ve arrived at the hallowed space. Inside a lucky few are already eating, happily tucked into the corners of the small room. There is no clearly definable line, just a huddled crowd staring in awe as the master works. He rarely looks up, his movements are slow but deft, completely void of grand gestures—this pizza maker is an artisan not a performer. You don’t have to second-guess who is behind the counter. If Dom DeMarco weren’t back there, the shop would be closed (and it is on Mondays and Tuesdays). You can expect to wait, at least an hour, two hours isn’t unheard of. Use the time to watch the master as he shapes the crust, spreads the sauce in one fluid movement, and grates the cheese by hand. When your pizza arrives, you’ll have a chance to utter a sincere but understated “thank you” as he cuts fresh basil over the pie and, as a final touch, drizzles it with olive oil from a tin can. The sacrament is complete and the pizza is ready to be eaten. The master turns back to his ancient oven—silently confident in the knowledge that his effort was not in vain.