First Meal: DiFara’s
“There’s life before you taste DiFara’s,” said one man in line, “and then there’s life after.” This is a sentiment I’ve been hearing for a long time — from food bloggers, from family members, and even from complete strangers. Words like “epiphany” and “revelatory” are thrown around. In a city that prides itself on its pizza, a place that commands so much reverence has to be good, right?
Good pizza is a variable thing. When you’re drunk and it’s three in the morning, any pizza is good pizza. Pizza eating while sober is much different. I’ve had Lombardi’s which was very good. I’ve also eaten pizza at Otto, though I don’t think anyone would claim that they have the best pizza in New York (I certainly won’t claim it).
Part of the DiFara’s legend is the commitment you have to make to get a pie. First you must trek all the way out to Midwood, and then you have to be willing to brave the legendarily long lines. Every time I’ve passed the place the line has been out the door (though this is not difficult to do considering the tiny space).
We arrived on a Saturday afternoon, and took our place in line just outside the door. It took us about an hour just to order the pizza, and then another half hour after ordering for our pizza to arrive (the pie itself only took about ten minutes to cook). During this time I heard the above pronouncement. A fight almost broke out at one point when someone was accused of trying to jump the line. All the time Dom DeMarco, the owner, was slowly and methodically going about the business of making his pizzas, one at a time, to order.
This is the other part, the integral part of the DiFara’s legend — Dom is the only one who makes the pizza, and his love for the work and his attention to detail help transform his pizzas into something other-worldly. This is why so many New Yorkers, known for their collective impatience, wait so long for the pizza, all crowded around the counter to watch the man at work.
Occasionally he would throw an extra cheese pie into the oven, and then he and his son would sell individual slices to the waiting crowd. This was a great way to tide the hungry mob over, as well as a great way to boost sales (at $4 a slice, the priciest pizza I’ve ever eaten). After passing up the offer of slices a couple of times, we broke down and got a slice each, hot from the oven. This was it — this was the pizza that provokes an awe bordering on religious mania. So how was it?
It was good. Very, very good. And yet, perhaps because of all the hype, something seemed off. It was merely pizza, after all. Worth the trip and the wait? As a once in a while indulgence yes, but not as an everyday slice of pizza.
We finally got our $28 artichoke pie (made with sauteed fresh artichokes, not canned) and we retired to an open table. Somewhat apprehensively, I tucked into the first slice. The artichoke pizza was much better, in my opinion, than the regular slice. This was great pizza, and yet, once again, merely pizza. I was expecting something treated with such reverence to somehow transcend its earthly form and become some more than just pizza. Alas, I was disappointed. DiFara’s had become the victim of the extreme hype that surrounds it.
And so life after DiFara’s is little different than life before. I am still in search of the life-changing pizza. As I said earlier, I would definitely go back. The pizza is, without question, very good. Certainly better than greasy corner pizza store pizza, but the best in New York? I can’t really believe that.
DiFara’s — 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn
Posted by Howard
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