There is no food more adaptable to the human requirement for joy than pizza. You can share it, hot and steaming, with your best friends, and it’s near guaranteed that before you’ve finished, you’ll all burst out laughing together for some reason or another. You can stumble out of bed in the middle of the night, sleepless from the ghosts moaning in your head, and the holy light of the refrigerator will spill upon a cold leftover slice on a paper plate, and for a few minutes those ghouls will be silenced, along with your hunger.
So what’s it gonna be? Neapolitan with a molten, doughy center? Detroit style with buttery caramelized corners, the Motor City’s answer to fine patisserie? A cheffy take on tavern-style cracker crust? Or worse yet, deep-dish?
Ditherers will be glad to know that they can also order these pies half and half, which I’m sure to some conscripts in the Pizza Taliban is something worth fighting over. For my part, it was absorbing to observe how the diameter line of yolk, melted Gruyere, and ripples of prosciutto cotto on the Parisienne met and just barely mingled with a pickly giardiniera-mined red tide under the meatball-and-ricotta half.
1521 N. Fremont 312-280-6000bebu.pizza
