Bryn Mawr’s pizza pie BYO tosses a brick
Bad pizza happens. All the time. Just as strip malls and sweatpants extend deep into our collective memory, uninspired pizza clogs the diets we’re raised on: Simple foodstuff that filled the stomach like so many Hot Pockets.
To many, bad pizza equates with acceptable, if not good. They take no offense because quality pie is as foreign as Rome itself. Hailing from Connecticut, home to New Haven’s celebrated palaces, my uncle long ago coined a term that proved valuable in explaining Grade A pie to the uninitiated: The Pizza Belt.
Historically, the Belt hugged the coast and touched as far north as greater Boston (“A” level ‘za can be found in Portland, Maine, too) and extended through to Connecticut and the New York metro area, then down to Trenton where it stalled out. Philadelphia, though familiar with the merits of sausage and peppers, was conspicuously short to the game. Less than ten years ago, asking a local to point to the good pie produced inconsistent results. The remotely-located Tacconelli’s (with its odd pre-ordered dough policy) remained the sole standard bearer until Philly woke up to the basics. Today, we’re flooded by gourmet burgers, gastropubs and a cluster of pizza joints getting it done. Stephen Starr, and his Pizzeria Stella, can be credited for the turnaround. His model? New Haven.
With Center City amending the Pizza Belt charter, it seemed less far-fetched to imagine quality, artisanal slices on the Main Line. Out with my wife a couple weeks ago, I was reminded of Crust, a cozy, BYO-friendly establishment in the heart of Bryn Mawr. The place is generally teeming, and the signage out front sent a strong signal: “Brick oven pizza.”
Friday night. We parked on Route 30 and made our way into the PLCB outlet just a few doors down from the restaurant. Potential for greatness was building. Our selection was an inexpensive ($9.99) 2010 Barbera from Fuso, with a twist-off cap. Allegro.
Crust had an inviting and warm energy, with groups of college kids and retiree-aged couples tucked into the communal tables. We were promptly seated, the Fuso was cracked and we were enjoying the wine in short order. It was alert from the pour, full of bright cherry, smoky and spicy, worth the ten spot.
Which, unfortunately and abruptly, brought us back to bad pizza happening. Spying pies around us, I was concerned by the blond-white edges, the milky, creamy cheese toppings and the general lack of char. Our Margherita arrived. It wasn’t so much the limp, tang-neutral sauce or crust with the flavorless consistency of breadsticks, it was the stretch in advertising.
“Brick oven” conditions generally alert the consumer to a skilled pizzaiolo and a product that breaks from the pack. Think of Stella, with its tricked-out honeycomb oven stuffed with white-hot wood embers, turning out the real deal in a matter of clicks. Conjure the perfect, crunchy-chewiness of the slightly blackened crust, the bubbled rim, the imported ingredients.
That vision alone compelled us to take a leap of faith in Bryn Mawr, committing our legal tender, bottle of Barbera and the evening itself to the effort. It wasn’t to be. You see, the folks at Crust employ anything but a fiery kiln to render their un-poetic pies. From our seats, we dubiously eyed the faux façade of the standard-issue, gas-fired, “brick-lined” oven. It was the kind of unit common to supermarket cafeterias and Sbarro of the Highway. That alone should have driven us, hungry, back into the night.
Few foods pair as gloriously with wine like a good pizza. Admittedly, my better judgment was clouded by a desire for a go-to BYO pie destination with a Lancaster Avenue zip code. Thankfully, Crust and I can part ways with minimal troubling aftertaste. I still have take-home from Anthony’s in Wayne, and my defection will be drowned out by the army of collegians who keep Crust afloat, smartphoning over their wedges and absentmindedly gazing out onto the street. Where I’m walking my bottle elsewhere.