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The best pizza I had this year -– maybe this decade -– wasn’t at Roberta’s, Di Fara or at my favorite by-the-slice spot, Ray’s. Nor was it at famed chef Wylie Dufresne’s Stretch nor at Ceres run by two Eleven Madison Park alumni.
It was from Tokyo — or more exactly at Pizza Studio Tamaki in the East Village (123 St. Marks Pl.), the first Big Apple outpost of chef-owner Tsubasa Tamaki’s Japanese outfit. If Big Apple pizzaioli don’t want to hear it, let them pop into PST and taste for themselves.
Tamaki’s ten-inch pies look Neapolitan at first glance. They’re round and they have familiar toppings of tomato, cheeses, olives, anchovies and basil. Except for blistered knots in the outer crusts — or cornicione, to cognoscenti — you’d take them for the standard article you’ve had a million times.
But a closer look reveals more densely packed elements. Nothing is applied sparingly. Here is New York-style, tomato-and-cheese plus a few extras a la Napoli, gone to decadent, overly abundant heaven.
Pizza scolds sweat over “authenticity” and argue over square or round, deep-dish or paper-thin crust. Most of us just want the stuff to taste great. I’ve loved pizza since I was a kid. My 76-year-old palate has had pizza in every shape and style, on every corner of New York, in LA and Prague and its hometown city, Naples —where I found the offerings less compelling than its reputation had prepared me for.
No pizza has blown me away quite like PST’s.
My first bite delivered explosive flavors of tomato sauce, fresh mozz, oregano and garlic. It was like tasting pizza for the first time.
The difference starts with the dough. Tamaki’s dough is made from a proprietary flour milled in Japan from American, Canadian and Japanese grains. A 30-hour fermentation adds complexity.
The result is a medium-thick crust that actually tastes of the yeast it’s made from — unlike crusts that taste of nothing and mainly serve as platforms for the toppings. It has a tantalizing, smoky note even though (despite reports elsewhere) no wood is used in the cooking process.
The oven floor is seasoned with Okinawan salt before each pie goes in for 60 to 75 seconds at 900 degrees Fahrenheit. The salt brightens all the flavors without overwhelming them.
Olive oil is a prominent note. Although reps for the restaurant were vague about how much is used — “it varies by pizza and is incorporated into the cooking process” — I tasted it in soul-satisfying abundance.
Tomato sauce, made in house from San Marzano tomatoes and oregano, unifies the fresh mozzarella, anchovies, garlic, oregano and basil in a pie called the Romana ($28).
The Arrabbiata ($32) is a sizzling number topped with fresh mozz, nduja, plump cherry tomatoes that squirt when poked like soup dumplings and a liberal sprinkling of black pepper.
Both varieties had awesome mouth feel, exquisitely balanced between soft and slightly crunchy.
Even the simple Margherita ($26) tasted grander than the sum of its tomato, mozzarella and basil parts.
The 5 Formaggi ($35) features an array of cheese —smoked mozzarella, gorgonzola, taleggio, grana padano and mascarpone — a rich, complex combo that made for the best all-white pie I ever had ($35). It comes with a dose of honey on the side that, when poured on the pizza, adds a delightful sweetness that sets of the cheeses.
Tamaki himself is in-and-out, although reps say he’ll be in town “consistently” and is due back in the week after Memorial Day. It doesn’t seem to matter. His executive chef, Aki Tadaaki, trained the team in Tokyo for three weeks before the opening and executive sous chef Shunya Ishida works at the restaurant full-time.
The rough-hewn venue features two dining areas anchored by a large, rectangular bar/counter that faces the colorful sidewalk.
PST isn’t cheap — up to $37 for 10-inch pies — but you can spend as much at any of haute pizza spots around town for pies only 20% larger and 100% less good.
If the current crowds are any indication, the Rising Sun will shine on St. Marks Place for a long, long time.
