Philadelphia (Pete’s Pizza Joint)

I’m in Philadelphia.

Determined not to repeat last night’s culinary mistakes, I decide to go foraging for pizza by the slice. The plan is simple: at each pizza place I pass, I’ll eat one slice. I figure this approach gives me a chance to find the best pizza in Old Town without making myself sick.

I leave the hotel, turn left, and walk up Chestnut Street until I come to Pete’s Pizza Joint. It’s a hole in the wall, but there’s something sincere about the brown shingles, the cracked yellow brick, and the bright red door. I step inside.

The place is rectangular — a long, dim room dominated by the ovens and counter. The fryer and grill is hidden in back. Between the two, a stark space punctuated by nest of greasy tables and rickety chairs.

Pete’s a muscular, sober guy in his late forties. “They never found evidence,” he says. He’s talking to a balding, big-bellied guy dressed in a black t-shirt and black sweats.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s a blaze,” Big Belly says.

“They didn’t find nothing,” Pete says. He turns to me. “What’ll it be?”

“A slice of pepperoni,” I say.

“Done.” He grabs a slice from a raised tin platter and shoves it in the oven with a spatula. “Three bucks.”

“A blaze,” Big Belly says. “A conflagration.”

The pizza heats right up. Pete dumps the slice on a paper plate, sells me a bottle of tea, and points me back to the tables. The crust is crisp, the cheese is smooth, the pepperoni is so spicy it glows. It’s the best New York-style pizza I’ve had since, well, New York.

I fold it in half and make short work of it. Nice.

I’m headed out. Pete puts a new pie up on the tin platter. I can’t help myself.

“Three bucks,” Pete says.

I walk down the street, eating this incredible slice of pie, watching the traffic thin out as evening comes to Old Town.