If there is one thing to know about my father, it’s that he absolutely loves New York style pizza. Yes, I’ve spent my entire life in Chicago, where not liking deep dish is a cardinal sin. But with both of my parents being native East Coasters, it’s no wonder that pizza is a touchy subject around our house.
Always in search of the best thin-crust pizza, I finally believe that we’ve found an adequate, local substitute. So on Thursday, after I picked my dad up at the airport, we headed north to Chicago’s Wicker Park/Bucktown neighborhood for a slice at Santullo’s Eatery.
Everything about the pizza was phenomenal: the perfectly melted cheese, the light, airy crust, down to the pie’s thin layer of sauce. I realize that it’s a bit strange, the way that my family obsesses about different types of pizza. I grew up in a fairly pizza-deprived household – delivery or otherwise – mostly because my parents couldn’t fathom settling for Pizza Hut or Papa John’s. Now, as a fairly competent person living on my own, I find that I don’t share my parent’s obsession with the perfect pizza. But – like my father – I can certainly still appreciate one.
Santullo’s, 1943 W. North Avenue, Chicago