“You should try that pizza place at the corner of…”

“What place? There’s no pizzeria there.”

“Of course there is, it’s been there for years.”

I go, and I look, and there it is. A place I’ve walked past so many times that it’s impossible I couldn’t have noticed it. And yet, I never did. Oh, somewhere in the back of my mind I know that I’ve glanced at it and simply dismissed it. It’s a hole-in-the-wall, it didn’t look clean, it didn’t look like they could possibly…. There’s just something about it that makes it a blank. A place I’ve not only never tried, but never thought about trying.

I mean, it has signs. But it’s dimly lit, and when you look inside, now fully aware of its existence, it has a patina of age on it. It’s not… dirty… but it’s definitely showing the years. The windows, while clean, are so scratched and chipped they could be frosted glass. Tables and chairs are shoved to the side, a bit jumbled, though that’s the pandemic, they’re only offering takeout. The bar, imposing, surrounds the kitchen. The staff… two in the kitchen, two in front, already double the number that could possibly be needed in this spot, appear as old and greyed as the building itself.

I wonder. But the place was recommended by two different locals in response to an online question about the best pizza in their neighborhood. So not people I know – it wasn’t even my question. That may or may not be good. I’ve been down this route before. While I’ve come to appreciate Argentine style pizza on its own terms and turf, it’s not the pizza I grew up with. Then again, the pizza I grew up with is now one that I recognize isn’t the pizza that I came to know and love in New York, nor the pizza that I came to know and love in Italy. It’s its own interpretation, and it takes some getting used to. But that’s been true in every place I’ve been and sampled pizza, around the globe.

It takes a while, this pizza. Far longer than a pizza ought to take. Long enough that the elder gentleman who took the order has shuffled to the door twice now to assure me that the pizza is, indeed, in process, and will soon be out. He waves apologetically towards the two in the kitchen, with a, “it takes them awhile these days”, as they, too, move at a glacial pace.

There’s something charming about it all, and it’s clearly a fixture on the block. An even older woman, bent and using a cane, slowly moves past, turning her head just long enough to say, “a plain mozzarella slice, can you bring it in half an hour?”. They don’t sell pizza by the slice, but he nods and turns, while one of the cooks asks, “so what are we having today?” I picture them making a pizza, just for her, each day, and then bringing her a slice of that, carefully wrapped, and then eating the rest of whatever she ordered for their own lunch.

After awhile, an open box is tenuously pushed across the pass from the kitchen. The other waiter lifts himself into action and examines it, sighs a deep one, closes the box, and then slowly picks it up and walks his way unsteadily towards me, holding it out in shaking hands. I still have to pay. He announces the price, and I hand him the bills. The till is empty, and the four of them dig into their pockets to figure out the change and then he carefully counts it out and hands it to me. I walk home, carrying this box, as anonymous as everything else about the place. I set it on the counter, take a deep breath, and open it…

…and yes, it’s Argentine style pizza in every aspect. Now, I know I carried the box carefully, and I remember that waiter’s deep sigh. I have to imagine that this molten river of cheese sloughing off to the corner happened when the box was pushed out of the kitchen and onto the bar, or perhaps as it was being carried to the sidewalk. Then again, given the quantity of cheese atop this thin crust, it’s entirely possible it was subject to tidal influences and simply pulled to the northwest.

I have ordered a half and half pizza – one half, a pizzaiola con mozzarella, the first indicating what is usually a cheese-less pie with tomato sauce, lots of garlic, and sometimes a sprinkle of chili, but at this place, it comes buried under cheese. The other half, my usual favorite, the calabresa, with slices of spicy longaniza sausage. They’ve added their own touches to it. The whole thing is strewn with onions. Lots and lots of onions, and the latter half has rounds of tomato covering the thick rounds of sausage. Although jumbled about in the lava flow of cheese, there are the requisite olives, with pits, though surprisingly not the usual one per slice, there are only four for six slices. The crust itself, flavorful though a touch dense, as if the dough hadn’t quite gotten around to rising yet. The tomato sauce is brushed tenuously across it, but actually has some flavor. And, surprisingly, the quality of the cheese is actually pretty good.

Now, is it the best pizza here in Recoleta? From my perch, no. But I can see a young local growing up with this pizza and now looking back at a box, filled, all on its own, with nostalgia. And cheese.

Pizza Calda, Juncal 2421, Recoleta.