We visited Pepe’s. And, no, this is not becoming a food blog. But Pepe’s is Pepe’s. Here’s the old man on the cover of the menu:
But what can you tell about a man from line art? Oh, his pixels are lovely. Mr. Pepe’s actual photograph.
And, no, food photography is difficult, not my strong suit and never works on a cell phone, but this pizza can’t be ignored:
Pepe started his first store 86 years ago and, some argue, it is the origin of pizza in the U.S. Who knows? Truly it is the best pizza you’ve ever had. This is not opinion or left to taste, but rather a fact. It is science and we must accept it.
The place is owned by Pepe’s grandson today. We go there every time we visit the in-laws. Ronald Reagan loved it, too. That was back when Connecticut was a GOP stronghold. The Republicans had won Connecticut in eight of 11 presidential post-war elections, only John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater could break their grip. That led up to Bill Clinton, who also enjoyed Pepe’s.
Connecticut has gone Democrat in the last five elections since 1992. Clearly the pizza is the key.
More of their historic photographs are here.
In New Haven, where Pepe’s started, pizza is one of those cultural touchstones that says much about the diner. You’re a Pepe’s fan or a Sally’s person. The competing pizza place was actually founded by Pepe’s nephew in 1938. Sally’s Apizza is no good. As I wrote in 2007, the long wait outside in the cold and the long wait inside aren’t worth considering:
The waiter, who’s doing you a favor by being there, just got off his bike apparently and is still wearing his Harley vest. He finally gets your order, promptly brings the drinks and disappears for 20 minutes. He returns to ask about your order, which he’s incorrectly scribbled. How one pizza becomes three I’ve yet to figure out. Half-an-hour later, when you finally make eye contact with the waiter (who’s doing you a favor) you inquire as to the whereabouts of the pizza.
“We’re on a 90 minute wait,” he sneers while stalking off. Truly, the last half of the sentence is spoken with his back turned. We speculate the wait just grew to 100 minutes. At 75 minutes you consider calling Information to get the number to the nearest Domino’s and order a delivery. At 90 minutes you actually make eye contact with the waiter again (who’s doing you a favor) and get a simple refill.
Throughout this time as people peer into the windows to gauge how busy the little place is you wave them off. “Don’t do it! It isn’t worth it!”
At 100 minutes, as speculated, the pizza arrives.
And it isn’t worth it. The pizza is OK. It is not 100 minute pizza. If such a thing exists you will not find it here. Instead you’ll get a burnt crust and charcoal on your fingers.
Eight minutes later the pizza is gone, because everyone at your table was famished. Ninety-three seconds after that your bill arrives. Sixteen seconds after that you throw the money on the table. The exact change. To the penny. In pennies. Under the pizza tray.
So that’s Sally’s. Pepe’s, meanwhile, made the Guardian‘s best food in the world list.
That’s one down on that list. Forty-nine to go. Lists like that are dangerous for completists. When are you ever going to be in Lisbon, to eat supposedly the world’s best custard tart?
I received a copy of 1,000 Places To See Before You Die a few years ago from a dear friend who decided she wanted to give me angst via the written word. How can I accomplish this? And now I see there are apparently annual editions.
Great. One of my most recent achievements has been removed for the list in favor of some Mongolian Milk trailer 100 yards off the Great Wall of China that is operated by a talented group of tap dancing, orphan entrepreneurs.
She signed the book (which I have lately decided is the best part of receiving a book as a gift):
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I have visited 30 of the 1,000 sites listed in my copy. (Yes, I’ve counted.) Miles to go, indeed.
Robert Frost knew what he was talking about.
He died in 1963, in Boston. I wonder, did he ever have Pepe’s?
