It’s one of those strange twists of fate that you spend nearly twenty days in Italy, wandering through Napoli, Sicily, Roma, and Venice in search of a good pie, a good slice—only to come home and find the best pie within easy walking distance.  Of course, it helps that the home turf is crammed with Italians, many of whose ancestors were probably accustomed to living along the water—say, the Amalfi coast, or the Italian Riviera—and to the need for a good pizza pie after a day spent on the beach.

Upon entering Fratelli La Bufala (FLB) beneath the neon yellow buffalo horns (think mozzarella la bufala), the first thing you notice about the dining room is the large wood-burning oven which occupies nearly a third of the back wall—with the pizza man’s station directly in front.  Red-clothed tables are positioned so you can watch it all: the domes of pizza dough on tin pans, the stretching, the pulling, the sauce, the cheese—and then into the oven.  A series of choreographic movements with which we’re all fondly familiar.

And yet, when this pizza arrives at your table—no, even before—when you see it pulled from the oven—there’s something about the perfectly charred crust—and the aroma from the cloves of garlic—and the marinara sauce.  Most of all, it’s in the dough: slightly salty, perfectly chewy—and that charred and blistered crust.  This is pizza pie crust as it was meant to be served, way back when Napoli gave its gift to the world.  How many times have you ordered a pizza pie—and left better than half the crust on your plate?  Won’t happen here—this is crust perfect for soaking up that last spot of marinara—and then another piece drizzled with extra virgin olive oil.  One last bit of crust—to keep the taste on your palate—before you return again.

And next time you’ll know: why head to Napoli—when Fratelli La Bufala is right around the corner.