1989, just off central park west; I lost my innocence. Spare me your sordid imagery, it wasn’t a one eye hooker or a sailor nor a pony. I’m talking about the permanence of things. Up to that moment I though life was good, loved ones lived forever, bad guys never win, technology would increase exponentially, that by 2000 we all would drive around in hovercraft. Most importantly that good things would be around forever.
Then it happened the pizza shop on the side of the building, a closet really, where magical triangles of dough, cheese, tomato sauce was gone. No longer was it owed by the sometimes lewd Italian guys that always were in a good mood and willing to razz the costumers.
These were the last of a dying breed, people who made real pizza. Since I have not had good pizza, the garbage that is called good pizza today can’t compare to the worst you might get back then. My problems would be solved if I had a time machine but I don’t. So I have decided ( well my wife has) to track down the last of the real pizza joints in NYC. This week is renowned Di Faro’s
If this was the choice between hospital food and a DiFaro’s I may pick the DiFaro’s .