The Pizza Journey: Di Fara's

A long journey, a long time in the making. It took guts to venture out there, deep into Midwood, Brooklyn. But, we'd read, Di Fara's was worth it. S. emailed U.T. and me about three months ago, urging us to go there. ``For pizza?'' I asked myself, questioning S.'s wisdom. But S., a recent transplant to Berlin who studied to become a chef at FCI before moving to Istanbul and then to Germany to contribute to the rising number of Turks, was insistent. When I visited him in der Vaterland, he asked if we'd been. He also admonished me for not keeping up Gybria, so, here it goes.

It was a beautiful Sunday. Sunny and warm despite the date: Jan. 24. Our execution ran into some hitches thanks to the increasingly unreliable NYC subway. The conquest involved Team Astoria, comprising U.T. and long-time companion A.W., Brooklynite A.F., follow reporter from Bloomberg, and myself. We lost S.A. of 23rd and Park along the way due to, ehem, mostly me mis-communicating our time of departure.

Alas, the rest of us agreed to meet on the Q train platform, Union Sq. subway station, at 1:15 p.m. on that faithful Sunday. I arrived with coffee at hand to find A.F. reading a book in Italian. I think. Could be Spanish. Don't quote me on that. Regardles, Team Astoria was delayed by about half an hour, courtesy of MTA, but none cared and we embarked on a Q train, Brooklyn-bound, soon as they met us.

The journey was longer than I expected. After covering some 12 miles in 12 stops, we disembarked at the Ave. J stop. Di Fara's, the storied pizza joint, is a block away, diagonally across the street from the subway stop. Hungry, we rushed over. It was about 2:20 p.m.

The place was crowded, but not crazy-packed. U.T. took charge and communicated our joint decision: one square pie and a regular pie, both plain. See, we're simple people with complicated taste buds. Gladly, all of us agreed that an honest pizza tastes best plain. A.F., a veteran of long years in Italy, and Team Astoria, who started their love affair in the streets of Florance, are all pizza connoisseurs. Me? I just like to eat. And so started our wait.

Pie after pie came steaming out of the oven. Domenico DeMarco, the 72-year-old pizza-god who opened to spot in 1964, personally makes all the pies with great care. First tossing the dough, then spreading the tomato sauce, grating the cheese, adding whatever ingredients for non-purists, and feeding the pie to the oven -- first placing it in a rectangular iron skillet if you asked for a square.

There was a group of 4 guys ahead of us, one sporting a Fox News fleece and a huge camera that snapped pictures at the speed I could devour slices. We figured the wait couldn't be that long as there were only, well, four guys, ahead of us. So, we busied ourselves with examining the maps, newspaper write-ups of the joint, photographs and other curiosities hanging on the walls of this tiny, maybe about 400-500 sq feet (40-50 square meters), shop.

We were terribly wrong in all our expectations. First, the group ahead of us had ordered something like four or six pies, and there were actually 12 or so of them lurking outside. Then, there were three dudes from Kansas State, first-time NYC visitors who had made the trip from the Upper East Side. Concerned about catching NFL games, they anxiously waited for their pizza, which, they thought, took a ridiculously long time to come out. Poor souls, with their healthy Midwestern physiques, had only ordered one pie. And only after them, it was our turn.

So, we waited. At around 2:50, about half an hour after getting there, I remarked to A.F. that our pizzas were likely coming out soon, since we'd been there for a while now. Of course, that turned into the joke of our pizza expedition, as A.F. reminded me of my not-so-smart prediction every 10 minutes, and joking that Dom hadn't even started on out pies yet. He turned out to be right. Very right, in fact.

At last, an-hour-and-a-half later, we got them. Both of them. And, by God, they were awesome. I think it partly had to do with how hungry we were. Then again, the food was truly tasty, so much so that it was hard to stop eating and if had a third pie on the ready, we'd probably devour that too. Hot, but not burning, the crusty thin-slice pie is lightly sauted with San Marzano tomatoes and heavily dressed with buffalo mozzarella cheese and Parmigiano-Reggiano cheeses from Italy, and finally topped with fresh basil from Israel. The flour and olive oil are also imported from Italy, according to the New York Times.

Dom tops off our pie with fresh basil...

... and slices it off!

I have to say the regular pie trumps the square one, which, though I'm a fan of Chicago's deep dish pizzas, is a bit on the doughier and heavier side. Also, you run the risk of a burnt bottom, which wasn't the case for us, but the 12-person group ahead of us certainly suffered from it.

Stuffed and happy, we left just as the clock was ticking 4 p.m., when Dom shuts down the place for a two-hour siesta. Will I be back? For the pizza, probably not as I'm not much of a snob of pies and live around the corner from Luzzo's, which is equally awesome. But the novelty was well worth it and should S. come around one of these days, I will certainly drag him out there for the experience.