Cuisine: Pizza
The pizza at Bleecker Street Pizza is nothing special for NYC. Which still means it’s better than 98% of the pizza in the US. The flies sure love it. The tourists probably see it on their Eater’s best lists. Actually, you won’t. Because, like I said, it’s nothing special. I’m sure, though, you will find it on those “lesser” lists. The ones that think pizza is pizza. And not the grub that god sent to Earth for the creatures made in his image to gobble upon off orange, greased-stained paper plates on their way back to the office. Or standing in a stupor staring at yourself in a worn mirror while you shove a slice into your face. Point is they come from places — like I did — where pizza isn’t an art. It’s just food the way a PB&J sandwich or Kraft Mac & Cheese is food.
But NYC is the home of pizza. I probably walked by 20 slice shops on my way to this place from my office. Some try. Some don’t. Some make the “best of” lists — the real best of lists — some don’t. But, really, what makes a good pizza? That can vary from person to person. But everyone knows what makes shitty pizza. Floppy. Too juicy. Overly sweet sauce. Too much sauce. Too little sauce. Too much cheese. Too little cheese. Chalky cheese. The wrong cheese. But when you move past those things into the acceptable range and even into the decent range, it all becomes a matter of taste. Putting “gourmet” pizzas aside. And stupid grandma pizzas. And Chicago pizzas. And Detroit and any number of other city’s nonsense, we’re talking standard NYC slice-under-glass fare.
Granted, the experience at Bleecker Street Pizza is anything but atypical. The ramshackle tables. The industrial tile floor that will turn any human into an elephant on roller skates with just a drop of water or oil. The framed photos of b-level celebs with Italian randos haphazardly thrown up on the wall. The drink fridges, the fountain soda machine and the ATM that most definitely is not skimming your card number. All in the service of slinging pies and slices of pie in a space that must just be squeaking out that A from the health department by the skin of its insect-clogged teeth.
It’s not about ambiance, though. It’s about the pizza. Which, in this case, is a decent facsimile of what NYC pizza should be. I went for just a plain slice, since that’s the best way to judge the food’s core goodness. It had decent structure. The crust was neither too under or too overdone. The look — though reheated — was of a sturdy nature. Not too light, not overly heavy. The cheese is not overly thick. But it is pretty robust. The bottom of the crust was adequately crispy. The thing that was missing for me was taste. Which, I know is hard to coax out of a reconstituted non-topping slice. But it does exist. Now, the taste wasn’t bad. It was neutral. It lacked something, though. Garlic? Some sort of herb? I don’t know; I’m not a pizza maker. I’m a pizza eater. And to me this typifies NYC pizza without being a top-notch example. Though I would probably push a small child reasonably hard for a decent slice of pizza — because pizza is an almost perfect food. So hide your kids.
69 7th Ave. South
212/924-4466
bleeckerstreetpizza.com