(Photo: Roger Jones)
Gino’s East of Chicago- Chicago, IL
On a road trip in 2004 to see Vic Chesnutt at the Old Town School of Folk Music – a performance in which Chesnutt managed to send scores of proper, dues-paying Old Town School members heading for the exits early via a lot of profane talk and a somber setlist – my brother and I stopped at Gino’s East of Chicago, which came highly recommended by a Chicago native whose eyes practically moistened with tears as he described how much he loved that pizzeria. And with good reason: our sausage and cheese pizza was probably the best pie I’d ever had, fat-ass deep dish pizza at its best.
We went big and polished off the whole thing; I swear the waiter gave us sideways looks when he delivered the bill. So what if the guilt that followed led to extended bouts of self-abuse at the gym in the following weeks? With pizza that good, it was well worth it. - Eric Dennis
Soprano’s Pizza- London, Ontario, Canada
Despite the fact that London and the nearby Toronto has its fair share of gourmet pizza places, with all sorts of fresh toppings, swanky atmosphere and a unique blend of cultural cuisines, nothing can top a simple, greasy, strip-plaza, 3-am-drunk type of slice. Soprano’s Pizza is that kind of place. The kind of place where the pizza is flat and indistinct but made with a noble, consistent mediocrity. The kind of place that sells “combos” that save you whopping a total of 10 cents. The kind of place where the owner is also the delivery guy and his wife runs the cash, while they yell at each other in a foreign tongue; but somehow, it all seems friendly, not hostile in the least. Soprano’s is the greasy spoon of pizza joints here in London; a small, independent, delicious and reliable standard that’s more about the personality than the pie. But damn, the pizza is good too. - Kyle Fowle
Lorenzo and Sons Pizza Inc.- Philadelphia, PA
Everyone has a story about Lorenzo and Sons Pizza, the South Street bastion that has stubbornly dug in its heels as the days of Zipperhead and the Dead Milkmen fade into Philadelphia’s grimy past, only to be replaced by organic eateries, pram-pushing hipsters and fancy bars. More than one person has claimed to have seen someone knifed in there. I heard whispers that the owner keeps a machine gun behind the counter. My sister calls the place “boob pizza” after the festive mural of a topless woman on its walls. The service isn’t friendly. They aren’t interested in your dietary concerns. What they do offer is the country’s best pizza: pliant, gooey slices so big that they fold over the tip to fit them on those white paper plates. Forget deep dish, ignore the West Coast gourmet pizza, fuck that wood-fired oven stuff. One bite of Lorenzo’s pizza, so long an institution in a rapidly changing neighborhood, is all that is needed to be reminded of home, of the artery-clogging goodness that once bolstered Philadelphia as the nation’s fattest city. It’s the best $2.25 you will spend there. – David Harris
