James Kenji Lopez-Alt

Pizza Rant: It's called a PLAIN SLICE.

Added 2025-09-17 02:19:14 +0000 UTC

This morning, as I was casually flicking through my Instagram feed, I came upon a video so shocking, so vile, so downright wrong, that I had to set my phone down and remind myself that easy, non-controversial topics like U.S. politics or the eternal debate over whether a hot dog is a sandwich still exist. It was the kind of video that makes you question the direction of civilization, the kind that makes you briefly wonder whether the locusts and floods might actually be a blessing. For a split second, I thought I was witnessing the end of days.

The video was from my friend and New York pizza expert Scott Weiner, who operates a long-running pizza tour business. He was standing outside Brooklyn pizza joint L’Industrie, holding a slice of their excellent pizza out on a plate. Sturdy, nicely charred crust. A light layer of tangy tomato sauce. A demure layer of melted low-moisture mozzarella cheese. Aside from the single basil leaf, as prototypical a New York slice as you could find.

New York pizza? At this hour? Localized entirely within my phone screen? I’d hit the Instagram jackpot. This day was starting out right.

I instinctively leaned forward as I do whenever I see a good-looking slice of pizza; my body knows the right pose to make sure the grease drips onto the sidewalk instead of my shirt.

But then, the horror commenced. One by one, he asked the folks waiting in line to identify the gloriously greasy triangle on the plate. And, by God, virtually every single person referred to it “cheese pizza," or, even more shockingly, “margherita.”

The sole exception was co-owner Nick Baglivo who called it a "regular slice."

I may live in Seattle now, but I’m a New Yorker through and through, and this type of transgression will not fly. I grew up eating multiple slices a week—sometimes multiple slices a day. A Sicilian and garlic knots from the old Pizza Town II up on Broadway. Whole pies from V&T or Patsy’s in Harlem. A pepperoni slice from Joe’s on Bleecker (flat pepperoni—there was no cuppy pepperoni in New York in those days). A Palermo from Ben’s in Soho. And—perhaps the food I’ve consumed more than any other in the world—a plain slice from Sacco in Hell’s Kitchen.

My DNA stretches like strands of aged mozzarella. My blood runs thick with canned roma tomato sauce. The image of a slice of pizza dusted with pepper flakes on a greasy paper plate held above the grimy New York City sidewalk is burned into my retina as clearly as the imprint of a 30-year-old MetroCard in my old high school wallet.

So when I see people butchering the language of pizza—my language of pizza—from 2,800 miles away, the rage that rises could boil the Hudson River in January.

For a brief moment, I considered letting this one slide. But things are looking stormy in the Big Apple, and those clouds aren’t gonna yell at themselves.

CHEESE PIZZA? CHEEZUS CRUST!

Let’s be clear: in New York, “cheese pizza” does not exist.

Sure, a slice topped with a simple tomato sauce and melty low-moisture mozzarella cheese can be found within a two block radius of virtually every intersection in the city. But that is not “cheese pizza.” It is a “plain slice,” plain and simple.

You may even get away with calling it a “regular slice” if you’re Italian-American or your accent is thick enough.

There are times when it’s OK to ask for “cheese pizza.” For instance:

Are you a seven-year-old at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party with only enough Skee-ball tickets to cash in for a plastic spider ring? Cheese pizza.
Are you talking to a teenager behind the counter of a mall in Des Moines who’s way more interested in what Kelsey is doing after work than how hot your slice is? Cheese pizza.
Are you in Michigan, planning to end your order with the words “with ranch”? Cheese pizza.
Are you in an airport food court in Omaha at 5 a.m., scanning the heat lamp for something—anything—that won’t give you salmonella? Cheese pizza.
Are you seven beers deep, staring into the tie-dye wall hanging on your dorm ceiling at 3 a.m., debating between the week-old slices on the desk or the bowl of Lucky Charms with slightly chunky milk on the dresser? Cheese pizza.
Are you at a bowling alley in Montana that also sells nachos and pitchers of flat Pepsi? Cheese pizza.
Are you in Orlando, standing between a Panda Express and a Sbarro, wondering what life choices brought you here? Call it cheese pizza. (Then order the Panda Express).

And, sure—maybe “cheese pizza” is even what you order in Times Square, the only part of New York that is definitely not part of New York.

Calling a plain slice “cheese pizza” makes about as much sense as calling chai “chai tea.” Or ordering “carne asada steak.” Or slipping your tootsies into a pair of “foot shoes.” It’s redundant, it’s clunky, it makes every New Yorker twitch involuntarily. It’s the linguistic equivalent of nails on a chalkboard—the grating scrape of a knife shaving char off a slice that spent a little too long in the reheat oven.

In New York, if you ask for “cheese pizza,” the guy behind the counter will look at you like you just asked him to squirt ketchup on it, or to hand you a fork and knife to eat it with. He’ll give you the slice, sure—New Yorkers are generous people—but deep inside, he will never forgive you.

And what about all those “it’s a margherita” folks? That’s even more absurd. Yes, some New York slice shops have what they call “margherita,” typically made with fresh (not aged) mozzarella, a few basil leaves, and maybe some slices of fresh tomato in addition to sauce. It’s not my favorite slice, but it’s normal, it’s on the menu. You can even find plenty of true Neapolitan-style margherita in New York, complete with leopard-spotted crust, soft center, milky cheese, extra-virgin olive oil, and delicate basil aroma. It’s a beautiful thing.

[A margherita slice compared to a plain slice]

But the slice Scott was holding? That was not a margherita (despite what L’Industrie insists on calling it). That was a Plain Slice—capital P, capital S. Calling that a margherita is like pointing at a bodega coffee in a blue-and-white paper cup and declaring it espresso. One is the humble, everyday fuel that keeps the city alive; the other is dressed up for company.

Would you confuse a taxi and a subway just because both of them have wheels and move people around? Would you confuse Di Fara Pizza with a pair of corduroys just because they’ve both got lines? No? So please, stop it with this “margherita” nonsense.

Finally, to the folks out there who say “piece of pizza” instead of “slice of pizza,” all I can say is that I see you. I hear you. And I need you to understand that your words have consequences. Real people are out here getting hurt. Mostly me.

WHY THE PLAIN SLICE?

The plain slice is the control slice. It’s the baseline. It’s the yardstick by which all other pizza in the shop is measured. If a shop can’t nail the plain slice, they can’t nail anything. Pepperoni? Fine. Sausage? Sure. Pile on the pineapple, the barbecue chicken, or even the ranch dressing if you must (just don’t do it near me). But the toppings at a New York slice shop aren’t worth considering until they’ve proven themselves with the simple balance of a perfect plain slice.

It starts with the crust.

A good New York pizza crust walks a tightrope. It’s thicker and sturdier than the Neapolitan it evolved from, thinner than a pan pizza, and built on a bottom layer about two millimeters thick that’s crisp, spottily browned, and strong enough to hold its own. The slice should cantilever out straight when you fold it down the middle, with little to no drooping at the tip—certainly no more than the very first bite should sag. If you need to prop it up delicately with two hands like you’re holding a wet paper grocery bag about to blow out its bottom, you’re not eating New York pizza, you’re about to live a cautionary tale.

[a perfectly cantilevered New York slice]

Because here’s the nightmare: you step outside, slice in hand, take three strides, and the tip sags forward. The cheese slides. And suddenly you’re standing on the sidewalk staring at a greasy, molten puddle of your hopes and dreams.

Strength matters—but only to a point. Too much crunch and you’re in cracker territory, which is as bad as too much flop. The fold should crackle, not snap. The crust should give as you fold it, but that bottom layer should remain fully intact. That first layer yields to a thin, chewy interior—three or four millimeters of tender dough that tastes like actual bread. Not floury, not bland. Wheaty, savory, alive. You should have to tug a bite away with your teeth, not have it break off like matzoh. If that’s the experience you’re chasing, go catch the next Greyhound to St. Louis.

Above that is what I call the “crust-sauce interface” layer—one or two millimeters where dough and tomato meets. It should be glossy, a little slick, almost doughy, but not raw. It’s the magic zone, and my favorite layer in the slice.

Speaking of that sauce, there’s no strict formula. The simplest (and some of the best) shops use nothing more than excellent quality canned tomatoes blended with salt. Some shops may season their sauce mildly with oregano, olive oil, or even garlic, but it’s by no means necessary or the norm. The beauty of a plain slice lies in its simplicity.

The top of a New York Slice is scattered sparingly with grated low-moisture mozzarella cheese before being baked. Low-moisture mozzarella is mozzarella that has been salted and aged to reduce its water content. It’s dryer, saltier, and tangier than the fresh, milky fior di latte or buffalo mozzarella that dots a Neapolitan pie. It melts into a flavorful, lightly-browned, stretchy layer that should be thin enough that the sauce still peeks through in streaks and splotches from underneath. If your pizza is covered in a thick, pale blanket of cheese, it’s not a proper New York slice.

[It's just big-boned]

Then there’s the edges. The “cornicione,” if you want to be fancy. The “bones” if you want to be cute. Or just the crust if you want to be real. A proper New York slice shouldn’t end in a giant ballooned-up rim like a Neo-Neapolitan pie. It should swell just a bit at the edges, browned evenly with the occasional darkly charred bubble, open and bready but never airy for the sake of air. It exists to be folded, to be bitten, to be finished off one-handed on the sidewalk before you duck down into the subway.

HOW TO ORDER PIZZA LIKE A NEW YORKER

Now that you’ve identified a great-looking slice, here’s how to order it:

It’s simple. You step up to the counter or the window, make eye contact, and say with confidence and zero hesitation: “A plain slice, please.” Not “a piece,” not “a cheese pizza,” not “one of those triangle things.” A plain slice.

Hand over your money (cash, preferably—this is still New York), and wait a minute while your slice gets a quick kiss from the oven and is handed over to you, balanced on its paper plate.

That’s it. End of transaction. Civilization in three steps.

Want to go a little deeper on the lingo? Here you go:

A slice is a slice, not a piece.
A whole pie is a whole pie. Not a round, not a wheel, not a ‘za. You order it by asking for “a plain pie,” not a “whole cheese”. There are no “pieces.”
Square pies also have names. Thick, bready, semi-fried-bottom with mozz on top of sauce? That’s a Sicilian. Layer the sauce on top of the mozz and you’ve got an upside-down Sicilian. If it’s thinner and chewier with a garlicky, sometimes oniony sauce, that’s a Grandma.
Reheating is standard. Unless you are getting a slice from a pie taken straight out of the oven, your slice will be tossed back in for a few moments to crisp up. Want it extra crisp? Say “well done.” Want it immediately? Tell them to just throw it on a plate and hand it over.
Never order slices “to go.” Ask for them “on a plate” or “in a box” to specify whether you’re eating it as you walk out, or whether you’re taking it over to a friend’s place.
Season it however you like, but be sparing. Red pepper flakes, yes. Salt, if you’re like me. Parm if it needs it. A sprinkle of dried oregano is fine, too, if you lean that way.
Fold it and bite it. Pizzas are true marvels of New York structural engineering that require neither fork nor knife. Don’t be like Donald.

A FEW PLACES TO GET GREAT NEW YORK PIZZA IN NEW YORK

[A couple of perfect slices from Cello's on St. Mark's]

Now, maybe part of the problem is that people don’t know where to go anymore. After the dollar-slice debacle of the 2010s drove many of the old excellent mom and pop shops out of business, New York is in the midst of a slice renaissance with excellent new spots slinging slices popping up in every borough.

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but these are some of my favorite spots in the city, in no particular order:

Patsy’s in East Harlem

This is almost always my first stop when visiting home. The East Harlem location of Patsy’s is among the oldest pizzerias in New York (Patsy was a disciple of Lombardi), and to my knowledge, the only shop within the city where you can get coal-fired pizza by the slice. It’s not fancy, but it’s everything that is right about New York pizza. Make sure you hit the slice shop on the North end of the space, not the sit-down restaurant south of it. (And note that the several other locations of Patsy’s dotted around the city are Patsy’s in name only. Their pizzas do not resemble the original in Harlem.

Sacco Pizza in Hell’s Kitchen

A true workhorse of a pizza joint. These were the slices I’d eat twice a week from the time I was a child until I left the city for college. There are no secrets here. The cheese and sauce are nondescript. The toppings are your average slice shop toppings. The crust is even baked on a pizza screen (an unforgivable sin for some pizza lovers). Yet there’s magic in that old deck oven of theirs, and for me, this is New York pizza.

Cello’s Pizza on St. Mark’s

A relatively new spot on St. Mark’s place. James Jaworski makes the pizza here, and it’s an outstanding representation of “new” New York style pizza with a crackly, poofy, wildly fermented crust, great balance of sauce and mozzarella, and a dusting of parmesan cheese and basil. One of my favorite new spots in the city.

Famous Ben’s in Soho

Their regular slices lean greasy and bland, but they serve what they call a “Palermo” slice, which is a New York take on Sicilian s’fincione. A thick Sicilian-style square topped with a rich, oniony tomato sauce and toasty bread crumbs. It’s exceptional.

Mama’s Too on the UWS

They took the cuppy pepperoni-laden, thick square slices popularized by Prince Street Pizza and perfected them. Their plain slices are also among the best. In the summer, treat yourself to some exceptional pistachio gelato or big ol’ sandwiches.

New Park Pizza in Howard Beach

One of the most storied pizzerias in Queens, New Park Pizza bakes their pies hot and fast, maximizing that textural contrast between crisp crust and soft, cloudy interior. I like getting my pies here well-done—the regular cook leans on the slightly-too-floppy side.

Best Pizza in Williamsburg

New York-style pizza baked in a wood-fired oven with top-notch ingredients and plenty of passion. They serve excellent plain slices as well as great squares. (The sleeper hit on the menu is their meatball or chicken parm subs.)

Williamsburg Pizza in Williamsburg

A modern classic New York slice with a crisp, flavorful crust, plenty of charred bubbles, and the perfect ratio of sauce to cheese.

Paulie Gee’s Slice Shop in Green Point

Paulie Gee became one of the foremost authorities on pizza later on in life after career change and the realization of a lifelong passion for pizza. His whole-pie Neapolitan joints are excellent, but his Greenpoint slice shop makes some of my favorite pizza in the city. The upside-down Sicilian with a sesame-seed encrusted base is uniquely delicious.

L&B Spumoni Garden in Gravesend

A classic spot that serves an archetypical Sicilian pie. Some folks may complain that it’t too Wonderbread-y, but that soft and easy-eating are part of its appeal. I love how it contrasts with the crisp bottom crust, or the well-browned rim of an edge piece (ask for an edge or corner). They construct their pizzas with a layer of tomato sauce sandwiched between a layer of mozzarella and romano cheese. Dining here feels like pure nostalgia, even if it’s your first time there. There is a newer location in DUMBO that I haven’t been to.

Louie & Ernie’s in Throg’s Neck

New York is not really a sausage town. Most pizza shops will use dry slices of pre-cooked link sausage. Louie & Ernie’s in Throg’s Neck does it right: nubbins of sausage that go on raw so that their juices can render and mingle with the cheese. Bonus feature: it’s located in one of those half-underground basements, if you’ve ever wanted to step in one of those.

New York Pizza Suprema near Penn Station

New York Pizza Suprema has a dizzying selection of round and square pies available, but the two to go for are the plain slice and the upside-down Sicilian. Though they insist up and down that there’s no sugar added to their tomato sauce, there’s no denying that this is one of the sweetest pizzas in town.

Luigi’s in Park Slope

A slice that Scott Weiner has described as “the honest truth of New York pizza,” this slice is about as definitive and classic as it gets, descriptions that extend beyond the slice to the entire atmosphere of the shop.

Joe and Pat’s in Staten Island

The pizza here is seriously thin, and that’s from the center all the way to the very edge. The sauce is sweet and bright and the aged mozzarella is applied in cubes that melt into a haphazard array of puddles across the top of the pie. Looking at it, you may not even recognize it as “New York Pizza,” but try telling that to the folks who make it and eat it. (And before you do, remember—you’re in Staten Island).