The Problem With Pepperoni Pizza Is That It’s Usually Bad!
Plus, where to get pepperoni slices that are actually amazing, a stunner of a smashburger, and a very nice slice of passionfruit pie
Enjoy this free essay on the state of pepperoni pizza. Subscribe to access the full column, with extended recommendations on what to order at Razza, Little Grenjai, and elsewhere
Pepperoni pizza needs to be better. Razza offers a solution…
Sometimes, New Yorkers like myself need a reminder that our metropolis doesn’t have a monopoly on tough-to-get into restaurants.
I received one of those reminders on Saturday, when my friend and I made a pilgrimage to Razza in Jersey City. The dark, woodsy restaurant — with exposed walls and a flame-spitting hearth — looks like a chic après-ski lodge in Jackson Hole. And it makes some of the country’s best pizzas.
The excellence of Razza is not a secret. The quoted wait: well over an hour, which wouldn’t be unreasonable for dinnertime. Except it was 3:20 p.m. And it was pouring rain outside. That was the first setback.
The second (ostensible) setback was that my friend ordered the $26 pepperoni pie.
Now hear me out before you get all worked up. Razza isn’t a corner slice spot. This is a famously creative destination; it’s home to the rare “yellow” margherita. Is this really the place to wait, like, 90 minutes for a pepperoni pie?
It is. And credit to my friend: that pie was spectacular. But before I get into Razza’s miracle of meat — and why it stands apart from the larger pepperoni pack — let me clear up some of my own biases.
I don’t order classic pepperoni pies anymore.
My 10-year-old self would be ashamed that middle-aged Sutton was casting aspersions at this regal porcine product. In the early 90s, I’d sometimes slice a log of Hormel pepperoni, throw it into the toaster oven, and gobble it up warm, taking care to appreciate the notes of garlic powder, industrial paprika, and sodium nitrite. If any crimson oil collected on the aluminum foil, and it always did, I’d drink it separately, as consommé.
In my youth, pepperoni pizza was gourmet. Until it wasn’t.
At some point in my 20s, I stopped ordering it. It was simply too much. The idea of adding salty, oily sausage to a salty, oily slice of pizza stopped making sense to me.
The classic pepperoni slice is a flawed slice, I’ve come to believe.
I swear I’m not trying to draw the ire of my fellow residents, nor am I hoping the New York Post writes a house editorial about my heresy. I’ll even admit I occasionally appreciate the indulgence of a pizzaiolo that goes overboard with pepperoni.
There’s something to be said for the Spicy Spring square at Prince Street, where layers of maroon ‘roni cups come stacked under more layers of ‘roni cups. It’s a decadence that reminds me of how Eiji Ichimura layers two slices of fatty toro onto his nigiri sushi, or how the master bakers at Nabisco sometimes throw a little extra “stuff” into an Oreo, turning the cookie into a “Double.” Yes, the Spicy Spring is a salt bomb, but at least the sweet sauce provides a whisper of balance.
I’m actually happy to enjoy that quintessential indulgence…as long as it’s not more than once every six years or so.
New York-area pizzerias — whether cheap or expensive — generally take things too far with pepperoni. Why is it that every bite needs a slice of meat? This isn’t an Italian hero! Or think of it this way: Does anyone seek out anchovy pizza where a blanket of oily fish covers every square bite?
Not every dish in the culinary world needs ceviche-level acidity, but to me, pepperoni slices scream for something to rein in the richness. Heck, even the carvers at Katz’s throw in a little mustard with your pastrami to break up all the fattiness.
The classic pepperoni slice is a rare foodstuff that would actually benefit from shrinkflation.
We need less ‘roni on our ‘za.
It’s tempting to say I hope things evolve, but the truth is they already are. One of L’Industrie’s signature slices involves piping dots of ricotta into the ‘roni cups, a dose of rich dairy to soften the salt. And for about a decade or so, Roberta’s has drizzled honey over its spicy soppressata pies, to keep the salinity factor in check. Paulie Gee’s Slice Shop, in turn, offers hot honey with its ‘roni, as does Scarr’s.
Heck, pepperoni and honey is skyrocketing to fame so fast that even Pizza Hut debuted this sweet-salty combination nationwide last month.
Razza, however, has the simplest solution to our rampant pepperoni problems. It uses the proper amount of meat. The proper amount is…just a little bit.
On my pie last week, there was just a handful (or two) of ‘roni cups.
Chef-owner Dan Richer confirmed with me during a telephone interview that he takes a restrained approach. He deploys just 24 rounds of pepperoni on each 12-inch pie. He uses just one brand, from Vermont Smoke & Cure. When supplies of that expensive variety ran short during the pandemic, he took pepperoni off the menu for a full year.
Richer aims for balance. “I don’t want pepperonis falling all over each other,” he says, adding that it “might make a good Instagram picture, but that’s not what I want to eat.”
Actually, allow me to let Richer go on about this:
“Have you ever gone to a steakhouse in Japan?,” he asks me.
I have not.
“It’s mind-blowing. The amount of beef that you really need to eat is so small, but when the beef is so high quality, you just don’t need that much,” he says.
This less-is-more philosophy translates to a better pepperoni pizza. The cups are crisp, with a subdued hint of spice, and you only taste the salumi every two bites or so. And the judicious scattering of meat lets the bright California tomatoes, the paper thin crust, and the house-made cheese shine through with clarity.
There’s another factor at play here, though. Razza’s milky mozz, not uncommon for a pie-only pizzeria, is lower in salt than the aged, oven-burnished cheese one encounters at a good slice joint. That means the seasoning in the ‘roni feels more natural and compelling, like fleur de sel on beef carpaccio, or like a piece of good carpentry that snaps together without nails or bolts. It is an axiomatic case for a slightly fancy pepperoni pie.
Sometimes, the best thing that can happen to tradition is a whole lot of change.
Long live the new pepperoni pizza!
Behind the Paywall: Pizza, Burgers, Pie
The pepperoni pizza at L’Industrie and Scarr’s
A few words about the yellow margherita at Razza
Bonus: The smashburger you need in your life at Little Grenjai
Bonus: The epic pearl pie at Superiority Burger
The very good Thai American smashburger at Little Grenjai
Just before 1:00 p.m. at Little Grenjai in Bed-Stuy, noodles were audibly sizzling in a ripping hot wok. A worker was pressing raw meat onto a hot griddle. A cashier was popping the top off my Topo Chico, letting out a pleasant hiss.
And twelve people were sitting inside the candy-colored restaurant, decked out in hues of cherry red and white. They all appeared to be hungry. With good cause.
Little Grenjai makes a very delicious burger. It costs just $11.