We're All Wrong About the Best Slice of Pizza
When people discuss the best slice of New York pizza, no one shop has ever really reigned supreme. When the discussion starts, it always ends up in familiar territory: Joe’s is usually brought up first, mainly based on name recognition, but is quickly shot down by enthusiasts. Like other foods, pizza fanatics usually lean towards one of two schools of thought when choosing their best slice: tradition or innovation. But most argue for a third option, perhaps objectively less “correct” but arguably more real and definitely more popular.
Those who favor a historically important slice have reason to do so. Old school spots like Lombardi’s or John’s on Bleeker are pie-only spots that use a combination of higher quality ingredients (compared to your average slice shop) and wood or coal-fired ovens for an ultra-crispy and perfectly fresh pie. They also pioneered the style: many of these shops have been slinging pizza pre-WWI, with Lombardi’s being the first pizzeria in America.
Advocates of newer “NY 2.0” slices cite their favorite shop’s focus on the science of dough, ultra-high-quality ingredients, and thoughtful flavor combinations as evidence of their superiority. The magnum opus of these new-gen shops is L’industrie. Their dough is pre-fermented using a poolish, mixed with a sourdough starter and at least 4 different types of flour, and aged for a second time. Their slices resemble those of fine dining shops with toppings like sausage and pesto, truffles, or prosciutto, all being delicious, cohesive and surprisingly non-gimmicky. Their pizza is their baby.
But pizza discourse has a third player, and it’s the one that always wins for the vast majority of people: the random hometown slice shop. I literally cannot tell you the number of times I’ve heard someone wholeheartedly say that the best pizza in the entirety of the United States is the local famous shop within 10 miles of their childhood home. Hometown pride shows up in every food argument, but the unshakable confidence of a Dover, New Hampshire resident saying that there is no better pizza than La Festa Brick and Brew is unmatched. People are usually willing to concede that the best pasta is probably in Italy, or the best sushi is somewhere in Japan. With pizza, their shop is the best. No contest.
My hypothesis for explaining this effect is that, while pride is strong, it can usually be beaten out by reason. Yes, the bacon egg and cheese at your local bodega is great, and you love the guy there. But there are plenty of awesome guys making awesome bacon egg and cheeses. The power of nostalgia, on the other hand, will forever dominate reason. And pizza is the ultimate nostalgia food. Other foods are nostalgia-heavy as well. Sure, you may have eaten more chicken nuggets as a child. What makes pizza the perfect nostalgia food is that pizza is variable to the point of your preferred slice being noticeably singular. The taste of your childhood slice is unmistakable. Find me 5 different popular chicken nuggets that are markedly different.
I admit that even I fall victim to the bias of my hometown slice. I do actually feel like my original slice spot, Luigi's in South Slope, is better than most, with Dave Portnoy (ew) and countless others raving about their pizza. But even with its accolades, I can't help but think that my childhood wonder of my first slice with real sauce, high-quality grande mozzarella, and great ratios makes it so I'm just chasing the high of my first bite of Luigi's.
For this reason, I honestly think that any discourse on what the objectively “best” slice of pizza in New York, America, or the world is unproductive. The best slice of pizza is the first great slice of pizza that you ever had, and people are just looking for the feeling of that first great slice.