Back to Di Fara
What I eventually pieced together, through Chowhound and coverage in other media, like the excellent pizza blog Slice, is that some time in the '80s Di Fara's owner, Dom DeMarco, who opened the place in 1964, got pizza religion and started devoting an almost obsessive artisanal attention to his pies, switching to quality imported ingredients unheard of in most neighborhood pizzerias. I was able to glean from the gospels that Dom achieved pizza divinity by about 1990, and that he continues to tinker with his recipes. Dom, however, plied his trade in relative obscurity until the internet revolutionized the nature of "word of mouth." Some give Chowhound's founder Jim Leff much of the credit, citing a 1997 kvell that caused an avalanche.
As far as the name is concerned, there was never a Mr. Di Fara. Two years ago Dom told the New York Times, "When I opened the store, my partner's name was Farina. My name is DeMarco. So when the lawyer made the paper, he put the two names together. Di Fara. Di for me, and Fara for him. I bought my partner out in 1978, I think." It appears that Farina and I left the neighborhood at about the same time.
As far as the recipe is concerned, Slice's Adam Kuban writes, "Mr. DeMarco uses a combination of fresh and canned San Marzano tomatoes for the sauce, which he makes daily—sometimes several times a day, from what we understand. Then there's the cheese: a combination of high-quality regular mozzarella, fresh buffalo mozzarella that he imports from Italy, and a dusting of sharp, slightly nutty-tasting grana padana. All this goodness sits atop a thin crust that Dom somehow coaxes to near-coal-oven crispness." There's also the extra-virgin olive oil.
Now the corner of Avenue J and East 15th Street in my old neighborhood is a major foodie destination. A once-quiet neighborhood pizzeria has become a constantly busy pilgrimage site. And as with any pilgrimage worthy of the name, there are trials to endure.
The long waits at Di Fara's are legendary, with forty-five minutes for a slice being perhaps the most cited average. A number of factors account for the long wait: Dom's care and precision; the fact that he and he alone makes all the pizzas, from start to finish; the fact that all the pies are freshly baked (i.e., no cold pizzas waiting to be reheated); the fact that only one level of the oven (your basic convection oven, by the way), the one closest to the flame, is used to bake the pies, meaning that there is room for only two at a time; and, of course, the incredible popularity of the place. Another factor is that at times, apparently, Dom works alone, with no help to take orders or money from the patrons, or to grate cheese, or to fill the olive oil decanters.
Dizzy from the buzz, I figured I had to give Di Fara's a try, even though returning to my old neighborhood always gives me the creeps. Given my mistrust of all religions and mass movements, I was skeptical. I was sure Di Fara's couldn't live up to its reputation. I was also reluctant to wait in an interminable line for a couple of slices of pizza, so I put off my visit until I could get there at an "off hour," or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. On Friday, August 4 I left the office early and headed out to Midwood on the Q Train. I got to Di Fara's at about 3:15 PM. It looked exactly the same as it had in the 70s—same crude, hand-painted sign, same grungy interior, same oven, I'm pretty sure, which looked like it had seen active battlefield duty. The only thing different was the fact there were articles, tributes and awards hanging all over the walls.
There were about three or four other patrons in the shop. I gave my order to Dom's daughter, whose assistance helps things, in a small way, to run more smoothly. I ordered one regular slice with artichokes, a house specialty, and one square slice. In less than five minutes a round pie came out. Dom's daughter spooned the sauteed artichoke hearts onto my slice. I brought it over to a table, along with my can of Limonata, and dug in.
Yes, it was good. It was very good. But was it transcendent? No. It was a very good slice of pizza, and the thin, dense, nutty crust was very impressive. Still, I wondered, is that all there is? Has buzz and momentum caused people to come from all corners of New York, not to mention the world, and wait in long lines for a non-transcendent, very good slice of pizza?
I finished the slice. There was no square pie in sight. I waited. People came and went, some for slices, some for whole pies to go. At about ten to four there was still no square pie in sight. A regular pie had just come out and, miraculously, there were still a couple of slices left after all the pre-orders were taken care of. I decided to claim one, to eat while I waited for my square. I ate it. It was very good, just like the last one. Still, I wasn't convinced it was worth all the trouble.
By 4 PM I had been there 45 minutes and still no square. So my quick, early slice was really part of the test. I now had endured the famous Di Fara 45-minute wait, wanting to try both types of pie, but I also had the option of leaving, relatively sated, and being able to say I had made the pilgrimmage. That just wouldn't do. I was determined to try a square. I figured I had waited 28 years to go back; a couple of more minutes wouldn't kill me.
There was no square because Dom kept putting regular pies in the oven and hadn't started on a square in all the time I'd been there. Then some people came in and ordered a square pie to go. Dom's daughter asked him, "Are you going to do a square next? There are people waiting for slices, and there's another one to go." Dom kept working on round pies, and every five minutes his daughter reminded him that people were waiting for squares.
I started talking to some of the people who were waiting. A couple of guys who had been there almost as long as me were also waiting for square slices. One lived in Manhattan, but his friend was visiting from Dublin. The guy who had ordered the square pie to go, a former Brooklynite, had driven from Long Island with his teenage daughter. After Di Fara's they were off to Coney Island. I have no idea where they planned to eat their pizza.
Finally, at close to 4:30, Dom got the message and started working on a square pie. The crusts for the square pies are now partially pre-baked, apparently a recent change that keeps them from tying up the oven too long. Dom lifted the crust from the pan and poured a copious quantity of extra-virgin olive oil under it. Then he added the sauce and cheeses on top. Then it went in the oven. By this time I had been there for about an hour and fifteen minutes—during off-peak.
In a very hot oven, with the crust mostly pre-baked, it doesn't take too long to cook a square pie, once Dom gets around to it, that is. Dom's daughter served me my slice and I took it back to the table. It was oily and messy, so I used a fork and knife on it. I took a bite.
It was transcendent. It was unique. It was delicious.
Now for a disclaimer. While I like pizza, I'm not a pizza fanatic. I've enjoyed pizzas in Italy, but I don't tend to order them too often when I'm there. I also prefer Turkish pides and Alsatian tartes flambées to pizza. Still, as far as pizza goes, I can't think of any I've had that was better than the square slice at Di Fara. The major difference between the two kinds of pie is apparently the sauce. For the square Dom uses a sauce that has been simmered with prosciutto or pancetta. I think it is the heartiness of this sauce, along with the way the cheeses marry on top of it that perhaps makes the noticeable difference. In addition, Dom added fresh basil to the square slices, which gave another dimension to the flavor.
So now I'm a Di Fara's true believer, but a sectarian of the square. Nonetheless, It might be some time before I go back. Like I said, I'm not a pizza fanatic—just a humble pilgrim.