Food critic Alison Cook delves into Chicago’s pizza scene

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My individual deep dish pizza at Lou Malnati on State Street in Chicago was an unexpected little thing.

My limited and ancient knowledge of the deep dish genre had armed me for goop and grandeur, but instead I was faced with a modest rim of dough crust encircling inconspicuous layers of cheese, tomato, and sausage. sliced.

It was about the size of a saucer. Its crust was maybe an inch and a half high. The infill layers couldn’t be more than an inch deep.

The crust was more of a crispy, buttery pastry than a matter of bread. It was a pie, okay: the kind of pie you could trace back to the Middle Ages, when locking things up in a solid crust was big business. As my editor was to point out later, when I emailed the photo, it looked more like a tomato quiche.

And, to my surprise, I liked it. As in “I found it nice” or “I would eat again”.

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I had been determined to make my peace with the deep dish as I toured the city that gave birth to it as a form of American pizza. Part of what attracted me to Malnati was its fame, part its location three blocks from my Michigan Avenue hotel, and part the fact that they offer individual pies, so I don’t. wouldn’t have to get into a big, expensive deal that I would never want to finish.

There are Chicago’s deepest food hotspots that are more popular with connoisseurs, like Pequod’s or My Pi, the food hall kiosk recommended to me by connoisseur Steve Dolinsky. It’s Chicago’s food journalist and pizza maker who takes visitors to the city on guided pizza tours. Just to give you an idea of ​​how seriously they take the genre here.

But Malnati’s was just too convenient, and I had other kinds of pizza to explore while vacationing in this pizza-crazy town. In my head, I had called the trip my pizza-cation – a chance to start filling the severe pizza deficit that I had accumulated over the long, dreary months since the pandemic struck.

My waiter advised me to order the “Chicago Classic” Sausage Pie from Malnati. “It’s a sausage town,” he told me firmly. My first surprise – and I should have expected – was the 30 minute wait that they warn you right there on the menu.

The puff pastry should cook; the cheese and tomato should blend together; the edges should grill well. It’s a pie, after all, not my favorite Neapolitan thing ripped out of a wood-fired oven at 900 degrees after a minute or so, max.

Nothing about my little pizza made my head spin on its own: the cheese, the tomato, the lengths of tightly textured sliced ​​sausage tucked inside (not on the top!) All turned out to be quite enjoyable. But they’ve merged into a heartwarming whole inside that crispy ring of dough. I get it.

Indeed, I understood why people mail order the frozen Malnati pies to bake at home. If you grew up on deep dishes as a comfort food, I suspect these would do the trick.

But I was much more interested in visiting Bonci’s Chicago outpost, the famous Roman pizza al taglio that separates its large rectangular focaccia-like pies and sells the pieces at a price per pound.

Bonci opened its first location outside of Italy here in the West Loop in 2017, right next to the West Randolph Street restaurant row. (Au Cheval, La Fille et la Chèvre and La Volière are all within easy walking distance.)

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For a pizza enthusiast, browsing the pizza line at Bonci is like a colorful ten-ring circus. The choices are carefully labeled and incredibly appealing. I chose three kinds – each rectangular length cut into segments, to better share them with my two pizza-loving companions – and struggled to pick a favorite.

Perhaps it was the number of deeply caramelized fried onions, the flavorful onion strings that come in and out of the salty cheese and a skillful touch of tomato, the crackle-bottom crust resembling focaccia recreated in one. deck ovens after your order. This is not a pasty focaccia style… the cold-fermented rind made from imported Italian-origin wheat flour is thinner, with no pillow of dough inside.

Still, I wish I had ordered more simple potato mozzarella pizza, so basic and satisfying. I watched an entire pot being assembled by one of the cooks in the narrow open kitchen, and I have to say that I dreamed of having an entire pot to myself.

My friends and I debated whether the meatball pizza outperformed the one topped with arugula, sundried tomatoes and creamy Bufala mozzarella drops. Okay, I thought the red peppers roasted on another slice should have been roasted more deeply, and maybe had some tangy marinade first; and that a layered version with thin slices of eggplant needed more vocals and seasoning.

Still, overall, we were happy to swap coins in our little countertop niche towards the back of the slit-shaped space. Well, with the exception of the reduced wine choices, which came in cans, and weren’t any better than you might expect. Hope this is a pandemic throwback because Bonci pizza is too much fun to eat with crappy wine.

I would like them to open a Bonci in Houston. The Vinny slice joint here, run by the Agriculture folks, is the closest thing to it, but although I enjoyed Vinny’s slices, I continued to run into the interior problem. soggy that can plague a thick crust pie. If they understood it regularly, I would be a regular.

On our last night in town, dinner number two (yes, you read that right) was at Spacca Napoli, the much-loved Neapolitan venue run by certified piazzaiuolo Jon Goldsmith. It’s super serious, with a good wine list, a gorgeous wood-fired oven tiled in a spray-wheat design, and a lovely high-ceilinged neighborhood feel.

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I hate to admit it, but there’s no such thing in Houston for steamy thin-crusted, high-crowned pies made with tightly restricted amounts of serious ingredients.

Alas, my old favorite, Pizaro’s, started increasing the filling quotient on their Neapolitan pies after the founder retired and left the operations to his children. Their Detroit and New York styles are still very good, but Neapolitan doesn’t hit like Neapolitan anymore for me. And while I really like the Neapolitan pies at Pizzeria Solario, the ingredients just aren’t as rigorously chosen as those at Spacca.

So I sat down, momentarily anyway, devouring much more than I should have of the Bufalaina pizza from Spacca, with its very simple sauce of mixed San Marzano tomatoes, its poufs of mozzarella with buffalo milk and its leaves. of basil. Lots of burns on the high crested crown; and on that of a Diavola tart with softer mozzarella fior di latte and thin, shiny pieces of red-peppery Calabrian soppressata.

Someday I will eat such a good Neapolitan pizza in Houston again. It’s one of the thoughts that keeps me alive. Seriously.

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