Artisanal Sin: Doubting Di Fara Pizza

Brooklyn's almighty Di Fara Pizzeria makes an exceptional pie that is, for lack of a more elegant expression, overrated.

There I said it.

I realize that within the Church of New York Pizza, this comment is pure blasphemy; perhaps the culinary equivalent of Sinead O'Connor's infamous "Pope picture-tearing" incident on Saturday Night Live many years ago.

Regardless of persuasion, nobody was fond of her behavior and as it pertains to the pizza at Di Fara, I'm not so sure the situation is any different. The unconditional adoration and worship for Di Fara's world renowned pies has been accepted as doctrine, employing an overt dogma against which no eater, much less an ubereater, shall ever dare speak.

Initially, it seems silly to compare being critical of Di Fara to the public denunciation of an ancient religion. However when you consider the countless articles, awards, honors, magazine covers, message board discussions, web sites, and office debates that worship at the alter of this 45-year old pizzeria, the analogy clearly holds water.

That said, despite whatever deluge of nasty comments and incisive invective spewed my way by die hard pizza puritans in response to what I have to say, I must, in the name of true ubereating, stand by my position - a position which asserts that Di Fara, albeit superior to the 98% of pizza out there, is, at this stage in the game, moderately overrated.

Now let me explain.

First and foremost, it behooves me to make the distinction between the pizza itself as its own (edible) entity and Di Fara's the institution as an overall experience. The former is the subject of my critique, while the latter is as inspiring and uplifting as I could have ever imagined.

To be frank, I find myself much more enamored with Di Fara the experience than Di Fara the pizza.

Beyond the revolving-door restaurant scene of Manhattan, this eternally saluted pizza parlor on the corner of Avenue J and 15th street in the South Brooklyn neighborhood of Midwood, has managed to rule New York pizza for more than four decades. Very few eating establishments, if any, have been able to enjoy for so long, the elusive combination of unwavering critical acclaim and rabidly loyal public support the way Di Fara has. This pizzeria is the proverbial Crown Jewel of a New York food empire that is perpetually infatuated with its past while constantly wary of its future.


Only 9 miles from Houston Street on Avenue J, replete with Kosher food stores and Eastern European restaurants and bakeries, Midwood feels like another world, a fifth dimension of sorts, unamused and disinterested with the Manhattanite machinations and malaise that preoccupy so many of us on the other side of the East River.

Inside, semi-turquoise green walls add contrast to the mosaic of magazine covers, newspaper clippings, and feature articles that celebrate the rich history and accomplishments of this immortal pizzeria. The severely weathered floor, too, is yet another bold reminder of the extent of history you're working with here.


Nostalgia aside, without question the overall Di Fara experience, however extraordinarily classic and honest it may be, is quite the bizarre endeavor for even the most seasoned of restaurant goers like myself. Getting from ordering to eating is an interesting journey to say the least and unlike anything I've ever seen.

Having arrived at noon on a Sunday, I walked into an almost entirely empty room, where owner, founder, and sole pizzaiola, Domenick DeMarco, and his nameless assistant were milling around behind the L-shaped counter - neither acknowledging each other nor my friend and me upon our entrance. The assistant rather quietly mumbled something without any sort of eye contact that indicated he would take my order, which he then scribbled on a blank notepad before requesting my initials as the call letters for the pie.

Now - you wait. For how long? Well nobody knows - except for Mr. DeMarco of course.

At Di Fara there is minimal communication between the buyer and the seller which means you pretty much stand there and watch Mr. DeMarco work his magic. And what magic it is. I am inclined to liken the entire ordering and waiting portion of the experience to the DMV - everybody is there for the same reason, yet no one really looks like they know where to go or what to do next. You are truly at the behest of the people running the place. Sadly, at Di Fara, the same is true.

My dining partner and I closely observed (along with everyone else) as this laconic older man, still hindered by a recent knee injury (and wearing a brace to prove it), shuffled laboriously between making pizza at one station, dismounting pies atop the front counter (where the final cutting takes place), and feverishly monitoring the works in progress in the ovens. It was tedious, mesmerizing, and relaxing to watch all at the same time. Mr. DeMarco is so deliberate and gingerly in his movement that you can't help but become enthralled with his stilted self-discipline to concentrate on one pie, and one pie only at any given time. I marveled at the sight of the man shredding and grating cheese specifically for each pie.

In fact I almost forgot about wondering which pizza was mine. Almost.

It wasn't long before the the crowd started to build, and what had begun as two distinct populations soon became one, as those posturing to "transmit" their order and those waiting for their prized pie, ultimately merged into a gelatinous, overly attentive pizza-pining mob. The docile atmosphere swiftly morphed into an "everyman-for-himself" environment in which looming impatience seemed to be getting the better of the majority of those standing in wait. I constantly repositioned myself to be able to shamelessly eyeball every pie that came out of the oven...with the hopes of it being mine of course.

Finally, when the pie was ready, Mr. DeMarco slowly extracted his famous work of art from the oven and proceeded to make the treacherous 5 foot trip to what I call the "cutting counter". There he divided his piping hot creation into 8 slices, cutting one half into 4, then cutting the other half into another 4 - an unusual method compared to the traditional 4 sweeping cuts across the diameter of the pie. At this point, I thought the pie was ready for the taking, but no...it wasn't. Instead it had to undergo a series of three finishing steps.

First, Mr. DeMarco, using a decanter he had to have stolen from the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz, applies a haphazardly heavy-handed does of extra virgin oil all over the pie. This I just absolutely loved - it brought a smile to my face.

He then retrieves a cluster of tightly packed basil from his work station across the way and uses a pair of shears to create basil clippings that are spread unevenly across the surface area of the pie.

Lastly, comes the pies de resistance: Mr. DeMarco christens the pie with a heaping handful of grated cheese, takes a good look at his creation, smiles ever so slightly, and then like a proud father watching his son score his first touchdown, nods his head with genuine approval. The pie is now officially "confirmed", and thus fit for immediate consumption.


Baptized, anointed, blessed, whatever it was, it was ready to be eaten, and we wasted no time.

In short, the pizza was delicious and gone in less than 5 minutes. What I truly loved about Di Fara's round pie is the gluttonous oiliness of it all. I've always loved my pies on the oily side, and Di Fara's post-operative application of extra virgin is much appreciated.


Furthermore, the combination of freshly snipped basil and fresh grated cheese is quickly enveloped and cooked by the residual heat of the pizza, allowing for the basil to wilt and release its aromatics while the cheese begins to loses its consistency and mesh with everything else on the pie. The most remarkable aspect of the Di Fara pie is that, because of Mr. DeMarco's extremely manual creative process, no two slices, let alone two pizzas, are the same. One slice may be super-infused with fresh basily goodness, while another may have suffered (enjoyed) a wollop of grated cheese. Two very different slices from one very incongruous pie.

I have not a doubt in my mind that Di Fara's round pie is one of the best to ever pass my lips. Yet as I enjoyed this artisanal classic, I couldn't help but feel a little underwhelmed. Given its marked oiliness, Di Fara's is an extremely wet pie which made for a couple sloppy slices whose crust completely gave out under the density of the melted cheese and red gravy. A thicker, more robust crust would remedy this immediately, giving the pie not just a solid foundation, but a better platform on which to showcase these ridiculously fresh ingredients.

Along the lines of the crust, I felt as though the dough was a bit tasteless, or at the very least, lacking the necessary yeasty punch that elevates the pie as a whole. In fact, I thought the dough was a non-entity in the grand scheme of things, arriving decidedly dry and burnt. Now in fairness, I've always failed to see the rationale behind a well done pie, but regardless, the dough around the perimeter was too cracker-like and crunchy. Again, I think Mr. DeMarco's creations would benefit greatly from a marginally thicker, more risen crust that would add an element of doughiness that this pie sorely needs.

All that said, probably the most salient reason for my mild disappointment was pie's inability to fully satiate me. Having eaten 4 slices in about 2 minutes, I just didn't feel that surge of satisfaction when it was all said and done.

Because of this intangible emptiness, and in light of the library of coverage and commendations dedicated to extolling the perfection of Di Fara's round creation, I couldn't help but feel as though the pie was overrated. Undeniably wonderful, but inexplicably unsatisfying.

Everything Di Fara represents as a pizzeria, and more broadly, an eating institution, is what I love about spending every free second of my time experiencing and consuming the best of what this city has to offer. While I truly wanted to be able to unequivocally crown this sacred pie THE best pizza in New York, my intuition just would not allow it. It's far too easy to agree with greatness than to question it.

It may not be the most popular of suggestions, but I would ask New York's learned pizza community to consider the possibility that years of incessant recognition, oodles of accolades, and draping swaths of loving praise have left us drunk on Di Fara, effectively all but entirely muting the modern culinary realm's much needed yet oft-missing voice of objectivity.

Even so, while I'm certainly not drunk on Di Fara's, I still wouldn't mind being full on it.

Di Fara Pizza (map it)
1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn NY 11230
718-258-1367

The Deal:
Pizza: A-
Service: N/A (there is none)
Ambiance: C (If it weren't for the smell of pizza dough and the anticipation in the air, I'd deem it depressing)
In a thought: Despite easily destroying 99% of pizza that's out there, Di Fara's won't keep you up at night. Artichoke Basille will."