I was always told from a young age that patience is a virtue. In New York, it can be a necessity. New Yorkers seem to be willing to get in a ridiculously long line for anything, not matter how overhyped (see Shake Shack, but they also know that to taste something ethereal, sometime waiting is a small price (see the reservation wait for Babbo.)
There was a freakishly gorgeous and warm day mid-February, so Q and I decided to walk over to Midwood for a taste of the best pizza we’ve ever had. The last time we were at DiFara’s, three of us strolled in, waited a half hour to get a pie, and finished the glorious creation in five minutes. We knew this was an anomaly, and we were prepared to wait much longer this time. We weren’t prepared for how so many of the other patrons lacked our patience.
Okay, if you see a crowd of twenty or so people, your safe bet is to assume that they are waiting. Your first inclination should not be to stroll past them and place an order. Everyone should be equal in pizzawaitingtime, and you are not special just because you look just like Parker Posey’s character in Best in Show. Grrrr. When you wait together, there is an unspoken bond—a shared anticipation. I hate when people don’t respect that bond.
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah, after dealing with the rudeness for about an hour, Q and I finally had our very own pie to call our own. And it was good, so good that we couldn’t wait to dig in, hence the incomplete-pie photo.
We got our pie with pepperoni and fresh garlic. Just look at that pepperoni! And the beautiful orange fusion created by the olive oil, two types of mozzarella, and pepperoni melding together. Enough has been written of Dom's methodical genius, so I’m just going to let the pictures do the talking.
Patience pays.
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