Recently a GQ writer went on a
20,000-mile trek looking for the best pizza within 10 metropolises. He
came to Detroit and three of them made it on the list. One of those was
Farmington Hills’ Weinstein’s pizzeria.
grew up a short bike ride away from his shop, which back then was
called Romano’s. He went off to study at the Culinary Institute of
America in New York, apprenticed himself to master pizza makers in New
Haven, Conn., and came home to convert the masses to thin-crust works
of art with crab, mozzarella, crushed garlic and lemon wedges.
10:30 one recent morning, he was adding undisclosed spices to a large
vat of red sauce. Then he pulled out a tray of dough patties wading in
olive oil, rolled them in flour and began hand-tossing them into crusts
for the lunch rush.
“The wetter the dough, the harder it is to deal with,” he says, “but the better the pizza.”
has the sort of build and wardrobe you want from your pizza maker:
Khaki shorts, white T-shirt, a very large white apron.
rhapsodize about coal (“I call it buried sunshine”), perfectly cooked
white crusts with brown spots (“The absolute epitome of what pizza
is”), the true key to pizza (“It’s about the toppings”) and wait, the
other true key (“It’s about the edge”).
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