A little over 50 years ago, when pizza was still a relatively novel thing, when there wasn’t a chain like Pizza Hut or Papa John’s in every suburb and few outside of New Haven knew “New Haven-style” was a thing, Calvin Trillin wrote the 1971 New Yorker article “The Ordeal of Fats Goldberg.” Fats Goldberg was a guy named Larry Goldberg who, when Trillin knew him in college, weighed three hundred pounds. When Trillin wrote the profile, Goldberg was considerably slimmer and had opened Goldberg Pizzeria, which a year earlier, in 1970, Milton Glaser and Jerome Snyder caused a controversy by saying that it was the place to go in NYC for the best pizza. Why was it such a controversy? Was it because Goldberg said he made “Jewish pizza” or took out ads in local publication classified sections saying you went to Goldberg’s for “sensual pepperoni”? Were people offended that he made a proto-Spago pie called the Goldilox, topped with, yup, lox? Not really. The real reason could be found in a 1970 letter to the New York magazine editors decrying the decision, where “Richard Smith” from Manhattan writes, “There are at least 50 people with impeccable pizza-tasting credentials who consider me the definite authority in the world of pizza, and let me tell you this: I have had Goldberg’s pizza and, at best, it hovers precariously between third- and fourth-rate.” Why did old Dick Smith from the Island of Manhattan feel that way? Goldberg’s pizza was “served in a deep aluminum-foil dish, which is like serving a hero sandwich on Bond bread.”
If the mention of the “aluminum-foil dish” didn’t give it away, Larry Goldberg, the guy who some considered to be the best pizza maker in NYC 50 years ago, actually made a Chicago-style deep dish. After years and years of people acting like there’s some war between the two cities, it’s sort of this forgotten bit of history that, until the last one closed in 2002, a beloved New York City pizza establishment was opened by “a nice Jewish boy from Kansas City,” who wanted pizza he had growing up in the Midwest, the type he loved when he worked in Chicago. So he started baking in his home kitchen in hopes of making “thick pizza, made with real tomatoes, gobs and gobs of cheese, a crust which is at the same time light and plump and crisp on the bottom, and with a flavor that is almost like pastry. A pizza, in short, that is a meal in itself.”
I bring up this conveniently overlooked bit of New York pizza history because, back when Emmett Burke opened his first spot, Emmett’s, back in 2014, it was also controversial—just controversial in a silly New York Post sort of way. The tabloid heard about a little place in the West Village making a deep-dish pie and wrote about it with the headline “Midwesterner challenges the NYC slice with deep-dish pizza.” It reduced what Burke was doing, and doing quite well, to sort of a schtick. The thing was, Burke was very serious about what he was doing. He was just obsessed with making great pizza and having a cool, chill spot on Macdougal near where he lived. It wasn’t an attempt to get people to stop buying dollar slices. It wasn’t some big, nefarious plot by Big Deep Dish. The guy just loves pizza and wanted to make the kind he grew up eating.
Of course, I had to try it out. Even though I’m not a big deep-dish fan, I am a Chicago-born boy, and it was the dead of winter. Knowing I could get a deep well of cheese and sauce that would help me get through the worst days of winter just appeals to my soul like dipping a beef sandwich in its own juices or telling people that Malört isn’t that bad, even though I know better. So I did, and I loved it. Just the feel of the cozy little spot was enough to get me back in the door. But the pizza was great. Emmett’s became a favorite spot, and more accessible once he started making what I consider the true Chicago-style pizza, thin, cracker crust tavern style. I got so obsessed with his pizza, that a few years back when I was researching my Bon Appetit article on tavern-style pizza, Burke and I struck up a friendship, cemented with him sending me home with two thin-crust pies. One of which I ate on the train ride back to Brooklyn like a hungry animal. I have eaten a lot of tavern-style in my life, and besides a deep love for Maria’s in Milwaukee, a place that is equal parts incredible pizza and John Waters kitsch weirdness meets Midwestern Italian Grey Gardens (believe me on this one), Emmett’s shot to the top of my list as my favorite take on my personal favorite style. That meeting of crunch and give, the perfect little edge pieces, the middle parts that are just strong enough to support a couple of toppings, the zing of the sauce, it’s all part of the experience.
So when Burke told me he was working on a second restaurant, I immediately started thinking about how nice it was going to be to have another spot in the city to go to. It’s not like Manhattan is lacking in restaurants, but I had the feeling that Burke shares a similar appreciation for the kind of place people actually want to go and hang out in. And also a pizza restaurant has to provide something more than just pizza. Take Roberta’s in Bushwick. The place sold itself on the great Neapolitan-style pizza, but there was also something so late-aughts hipster dirtbag hangout about the place that attracted people from all over to make their first journey deep into Bushwick. Lucali, which opened in Carroll Gardens in 2006, has a rustic, neighborhoody vibe to it, enhanced by the fact that you can bring your own beer or wine. Of course, you have to line up early to get a table since there are no reservations, but it all feels like part of the experience, and with a pizza restaurant (note: not a slice shop, that’s a different thing), experience is as everything. People have to enjoy themselves and also like what they’re eating. It’s actually a tough balance. I’ve seen a lot of places try and fail. The ones that succeed, however, can tell you everything about the person behind the place.
And the thing about Burke is he’s a Chicago guy. He wants a neighborhood spot, but he also knows he’s in Manhattan, so the place has to have every little thing right. I’ve already extolled the virtues of the pies, but Emmett’s on Grove is the sort of place that you walk into and you get the feeling Burke just closed his eyes one day and conjured up in his mind what his version of the perfect place is. Or, at the very least, he read my diary where I write all the time about throwing it all away and opening my own updated version of the classic tavern-style spot.
You notice it right away when you walk into Emmett’s on Grove. The place is packed, but there’s room. There is a little space between the door and the bar, but you don’t feel like you’re slammed up against everybody once you get your drink. And after you do that, when you go to your table, you go to the dining room and, again, there’s actual room. You aren’t squeezing between chairs or bumping into people. The place isn’t big, it’s just set up in a way that’s welcoming and cozy, but also comfortable. And when you sit down, you’re sitting in comfortable old bowling alley benches Burke picked up from a spot outside of Cleveland that closed down a few years ago. Its touches like that, like the Grace Jones poster or the Cy Twombly on the wall, the lighting that isn’t dim, but isn’t turned up all the way to attract influencers who just want to pose for Instagram. I’m trying to use this word less, and I promise I don’t throw it around as much, but Emmett’s on Grove makes my favorite pizza, but they also really bring the vibes. The vibes are really good. Not something I really ever think I’m going to say after hanging out in the West Village, honestly. If I had to put a name to it, I’d say it’s very post-fern bar. Remember when people were trying to make the fern bar a thing again? I actually liked that idea. But I could also see Emmett’s on Grove maturing into a West Village pizza version of a place like J.G. Melon’s or something akin to what Long Island Bar has turned into in Brooklyn, but, again, with pizza.
nce it was just me and my friend Isaac (you know Issac, Mr. Dirtbag Massachusets. The guy who suggests books on the Today Show and takes people for long walks and then writes about them), we took it easy. We ordered the homemade potato chips, two pies (one with giardiniera and mushrooms, the other with chicken, fresh tomatoes and garlic), and, most importantly, my true litmus test for a pizza experience, a Caesar salad. I am a believer that a nice Caesar before your pizza is one of the nice little experiences in life. If done right, it’s a nice, savory-yet-refreshing little chilly warm up before you burn the roof of your mouth with cheese. I don’t need the Caesar to be mind-blowing because let’s face it, it’s just a Caesar. It shouldn’t be that tough. But I also don’t want something made with garbage bagged iceberg that tastes like the weird brown spots you see on the lettuce and fake, processed parmesan. Just make it nice. That’s all I ask. Emmett’s on Grove makes it a little fancy, with lettuce that looks like they picked out each leaf individually and dressed it accordingly, but it isn’t at all precious or lacking. It’s like a nice Spritz or Negroni before a meal. The Caesar salad is the aperitivo hour of the pizza dinner. It’s an appetizer, sure. But it’s also a refreshing way to start your meal.
Two pies, two bottles of wine, some chips and a salad later, the server brought out a big plastic Margarita glass filled with some sort of green ice cream and a bottle of Fernet-Branca and poured the amaro over the ice cream and told us to have at with the Emmett’s take on the Grasshopper. It was a perfect way to wind it all down and I wanted to spend more time there drinking more wine, but we knew that there were people waiting for a table, so we took the rest of the pizza to go, went outside and Isaac convinced me to go for a long walk. We hit the middle of the Manhattan Bridge, and the lightning started. Then the little drizzle followed and, finally, the downpour. It was slightly terrifying being in the literal middle of a long bridge with nothing to cover us and the rain just barreling down. We were getting soaked and the poor box of pizza was instinctively used for cover. Unfortunately, it was no match for the rain, and we had to throw it out. Isaac seemed sad, and I understand since I don’t believe in wasting food, but I especially believe in the power of leftover pizza. But after a second it went away because I realized I’ll be back at Emmett’s on Grove really soon since it’s my favorite pizza place in New York. A Chicago guy making great Chicago pizza in the West Village. It feels like such a sin, but Burke’s just following in the footsteps of Larry Goldberg. So it’s all good.