A little frazzled but still in control the young bearded guy in front of the oven ladled tomato sauce on the dough with the ease of a Renaissance artist layering red paint on a priceless fresco.
Looking up he quickly explained.
“I just got an order for 30 pizzas,” he said. “It’ll take me 20, 30 minutes to get to yours.”
He wanted me to understand his challenge so I didn’t take the delay personally (I take everything personally and he must have picked up the vibe) or think he and his crew were goofing off on the job.
I knew better than that.
This is Santucci’s Pizza at 901 S. 10th Street in the South Philly Italian Market, billed as the “Original Square Pizza,” and the best pizza in Philadelphia, a city with as many pizzerias as Michelangelo slapped brush strokes on a slice of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
I’ve visited the Vatican. I strained my neck looking at the ceiling. But instead of gawking at angels assisting the righteous to ascend into heaven and pudgy cherubs (probably hungry for pizza) hovering naked near the roof, I’d rather watch a Santucci’s master chef create a fresh pizza with the sauce on top of ready-to-melt mozzarella and crispy dough holding the righteous secret recipe together.
I’ve eaten pizza in Rome and in Assisi, too, after visiting St. Francis’ tomb. And I swear on my middle name (Francis) that Santucci’s pizza is better than any pizza, as good as it was, I ate in the old country. Not only is Santucci’s pizza the best pizza in Philly, it’s the best pizza in the world.
How ‘bout that? Yeah, I know. But I’m not here to argue with you. When my mind’s made up, my mind’s made up. Don’t even think about trying to persuade me otherwise. I’ll just get worse.
When my wife and I drive from Scranton to go down the shore for a week we stop and grab four Santucci’s pizzas and load up on 9th Street supplies like scamutz cheese, rolls, seeded bread, Sicilian olives and long hots. We eat Santucci’s slices for six nights straight. Hot, cold, whatever, I’ll embrace Santucci’s pizza anytime, anyplace. But my favorite moment arrives when I’m eating two scorching slices right out of the box while smacking my lips at the back of my car as I’m standing in the street.
We made it to the neighborhood early Saturday after a Friday night book-signing event for my latest novel at the Pen & Pencil Club. The P&P is America’s oldest press club where I’ve been a member for about 40 years. So we hit Santucci’s pretty much first thing in the morning, me thinking I might be blessed and get the first pizza of the day. We drove around for about 20 minutes looking for a parking space and as fate or divine guidance might have it, I eventually grabbed one of three VIP (very important pizzeria) spots right outside Santucci’s front door.
After finding out about the super pizza order, I said I’d wait no matter how long it took. As busy as the workers were everybody in the place treated me beautifully, the way it’s supposed to be. When my pizza was ready the man behind the counter pulled that red hot square out of the oven and handed over my reward. Everybody wished me well as I grinned and leaned into the door with my shoulder like a 220-pound Eagles halfback hitting a hole and sprinting for the end zone.
Like always when we come to Santucci’s, my wife Stephanie had already raised the Suburu Outback hatchback, made space and laid out the paper towels. Was it coincidence when Stephanie opened the box I heard the church bells across the street at St. Paul Roman Catholic Church peal louder than usual? I almost blessed myself. I almost took a knee.
“Whoa, I can’t even touch the crust it’s so hot,” I said as I juggled the steaming saucy, gooey dripping slice and took my first sacred mouthful.
Sauce sweeter than Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore,” chewy white cheese soft as a Northern Italian grandmother’s loving touch and a light golden crust baked to perfection created a sacramental food miracle even better than turning water to wine. I ate the one slice. I ate two slices. And after Stephanie tore the thick crusty edge off her second slice I ate the rest of her heavenly nourishment.
Later that night after we got home we tuned into Saturday Night Live at the Oldies hosted by my buddy Shadoe Steele on the Cube, the # 3 station on the Audilous Global Radio Network, slid the final six slices into the oven and opened a nice bottle of Angeline pinot noir. A few years ago in Northeastern Pennsylvania hard coal country Steele and I were known on my news talk radio show as the Pizza Kings. Unlike today’s pampered YouTube chooch who gave Santucci’s a 7.5 out of 10 review, Steele and I ruled as two-fisted heavyweight champion pizza eaters. We’d take it to the street, exactly where I stood Saturday morning, slice in hand and ready to bite, chew, swallow and bite again as I awarded Santucci’s a 15 out of 10.
I’m sending this column to the Pope, by the way. Santucci’s is a blessed experience. If Leo ever comes to Philadelphia he’ll need a place to eat. Of course I I know just the spot. But I’m not sharing. Nobody gets my Santucci’s pizza.
And I mean nobody.
Not even JC, Pope Leo’s big boss.
