For the best pizza this side of the Atlantic, you must go to Giovanni’s, on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx.
I am aware that this is a controversial statement, and I am not making it for the purpose of begin an argument. If you are inclined to argue, first go to Giovanni’s. Then we can talk.
Even better, across the street is the Madonia Bros. Bakery, which sells “cannolis filled while you wait.” The first time I saw that sign, I was with the wonderful friends who had just moved me into Washington Heights. We mocked it–wouldn’t you? Until, that is, Andrea bought a cannoli, which they did, in fact, fill while she waited. And the thing is, everyone who tries one of these things is irrevocably converted. I personally have never much liked cannolis, and I adore these. The shells are flaky and buttery, and the filling is creamy, without the dull glueyness that sets in when the moisture starts leaching out into the shell. I would take them over Magnolia cupcakes; can you imagine?
The point of all this is that my relentlessly New York weekend continued on Arthur Avenue on Sunday. It was an integral part of Project: Diversion, the point of which was to keep Andrea away from the marathon she trained so hard for that she developed a stress fracture.
“I had pizza tonight, too!” said Nick, but I can’t help but think that it had to be a little different.
I fret on Nick’s behalf when he misses especially good episodes of Iron Chef America, which is one of the handful of shows we both enjoy. I sincerely appreciate living in a country where people stress over good customer service, even if I have to call out of my city’s area codes to talk to most of them. A country where you can find rabbit in any grocery store makes me tense, as does the ever-present danger that ignoring one unfamiliar word could be the difference between ordering a nice steak and ordering some kind of gland from a cow’s brain stem. Seriously. It very nearly happened once.
More than that, I love subways that run all night, taking an attitude about the outer boroughs (except for the parts that have perfect pizza), having the number of an unlisted speakeasy, giving good directions, and venting about the absurd living conditions we all put up with just to be able to say we live here. I never expected to live in NYC forever, but what is long “enough” to live in the place you love?