Norwalk hasn’t really been a friend to the Pizza Tour; it’s given us gross crackery pies, puffy sauce-laden monstrosities, and 70s era garbage, that have made it very difficult to justify coming back into town. According to Jane and Michael Stern of Gourmet Magazine, Letizia’s is the light at the end of the tunnel, boasting three generations of pizza prowess dating back to 1937 that crank out pies that Gourmet mentions in the same breath as New Haven’s big boys. The Sterns also call Colony Grill’s pie “about a foot-and-a-half in diameter” and “excellent,” so we’re out to see if they really know what the hell they’re talking about with all of the Letizia’s gushing.

Establishment. Letizia’s is pretty devoid of bells and whistles, with an interior consisting of no more than a few small tables, a counter, and some Snapple coolers for a bare bones, purely utilitarian look helped along by the flour footprint-kissed industrial carpeting. Still, plastered along the walls are plenty of horn-tooting newspaper articles and awards that set the bar pretty high for a restaurant with such a clear following while making the establishment feel less like a stark white hospital. Service was as one would expect of a counter-serve establishment (read: quick, terse), albeit with a bit more tact and friendliness than we’ve come across even compared to some sit-down locales. Evidenced by the standard issue map of Italy on the wall, Letizia’s menu consists primarily of Italian specialties ranging from hearty pasta dishes, salads, and grinder-style sandwiches to their ever-present specialty and traditional pizza offerings including a “garbage” pie packed high with tons of meaty toppings.

Pizza. After sampling countless different pizzas over the past year, we can say that Letizia’s makes a very unique pie both in taste and in texture. This pizza is founded on a super thin and uniquely dense, lifeless crust that is hardly crisp, but flavorful nonetheless. Slathered virtually to the edge is a uniquely sharp and tangy sauce, with slightly metallic notes reminiscent of The Varsity Club’s party room pie (we realize that this is a very obscure reference that only about a half generation of Stamford kids will understand, but suffice it to say—this is not a particularly good thing). Cutting through this faint taste of rusty buffalo nickels was just the right amount of creamy, delicious cheese with a perfect springy snap cooked to a golden-brown, gooey consistency. Atop this Pie of One Thousand Tastes was our topping of choice, half-steak and half-a virtual swimming pool of oil that would make even the least health conscious of diners consider a napkin mop-up job before digging in (this seemed to be exclusive to the slices that we specified to be half-cheese, so we’ll chalk that up as an aspect of their plain pie). All of that said, the toppings were absolutely delicious: the steak was tender and moist, the oil was heart-stoppingly indulgent. As you may have gathered from our take on the crust, we were less than enthusiastic about this pizza’s floppy, cumbersome, ingredient slip-prone texture that had us reaching for a knife and fork from the beginning—probably the biggest knock on yet another decisively below average pie.

The bottom line. While this pie was immensely flavorful, most of it’s flavor is derived from a strong, gaudy, sub-par sauce that overwhelms an otherwise thin and incoherent pizza that is nothing like anything we’ve ever tasted—and not in a good way.

Establishment: 18/30
Pizza: 15/30
Hits the Spot: 6.3/10
Large Cheese: $11.75

You might remember our latest entry from the annals of Stamford pizzas past, as it existed in town until our city’s pizza glut and Shiki Hibachi vanquished it from existence. While the menu at John’s Best may still refer to a sister pizzeria in the Woolworth(!!) Shopping Center on Hope Street, it’s merely a yellowed, decrepit, vinyl-sleeved relic of the past.

Establishment. John’s Best certainly hearkens back to a different age. Namely the early 1970s, which is probably the last time its interior was updated. A weathered peak awning emblazoned with (equally weathered) “John’s Best Pizza & Restaurant” lettering welcomed us into a dim and dumpy dining room littered with stained-glass lighting fixtures and fake plants. As if the wood-printed tile motif wasn’t homely enough, we were seated at a wrought iron table in a cramped little booth that had our knees and shins mere inches away from smashing into the extraordinarily overbuilt table supports. Decor aside, we were comparably pleased with the prompt and oddly complementary service (she told one of us, “nice hair!” before darting off to the kitchen with our order). While this tailed off toward the end of dinner—the check took forever, our water pitcher was splattered with sticky soda syrup, and the loud, endless banter from adjacent waitresses had us stirring with rage—there weren’t too many barriers to us stuffing our faces with pie. John’s Best’s menu consists mainly of Italian food, ranging from pasta dishes to sandwiches and salads and of course, pizza.

Pizza. We opted for a half-plain, half-meatball pie and for the most part, it wasn’t terrible. The crust was light and airy with enough of a chewy bite that it didn’t come off as bready or insubstantial. The cheese was creamy and plentiful, with a satisfying snap and welcoming stringiness. Unfortunately, the cheese was in short supply on a good two inch wide strip at the perimeter of the pie, pooling in the middle. The sauce was about average with the chunky texture and slight sweetness and tang of fresh tomatoes, but it felt underseasoned and a bit bland.The meatball topping was a bit of a letdown as well, with a rather unwelcome sponginess and metallic notes that could have used some of the unmistakable Italian flavors we’ve come to expect. The texture of this pie also left something to be desired as the oven-blistered, dry crust couldn’t quite hold up to the oils and cheese, soaking them up and devolving into a clumsy, floppy mess over time. Further, the cheese had a tendency to slide right off the pizza, and the pie as a whole lacked cohesion, both flavor- and texture-wise. The better aspects of this pie bordered on average and while not horrible, this pizza’s mediocrity was among its biggest sins.

The bottom line. There’s a very clear reason why John’s Bests have been closing all around Fairfield County: an unwillingness to update and upgrade a decent-but-flawed pizza and a laughingly outdated dining experience has allowed time—and far better establishments—to pass John’s Best by.

Establishment: 16/30
Pizza: 17/30
Hits the Spot: 5.0/10
Large Cheese: $12.45

Located in pistol-wavin’ New Haven, Connecticut, the self-proclaimed pizza capital of the world, Modern Apizza brandishes a big, old, coal-fired brick oven and a street-filling queue that rivals both the oven’s size and age. Often mentioned in the same breath as New Haven’s iconic Pepe’s and Sally’s, Modern Apizza claims to have served the best pizza and calzone in town since 1934 and conveniently so, we’ve got the chops to test that very claim.

Establishment. Modern Apizza has the familiar ambiance of a wood-paneled den circa 1973 with a line stretching into the street on a typical Friday night (apparently a prerequisite for New Haven pizzerias) and a severe lack of parking. Framed by wretched Red Sox memorabilia, this restaurant offers a quick glimpse of its oversized coal-fired oven at the front counter amongst a thorough spackling of superfluous chowderhead propaganda. Misguided loyalties aside, Modern is otherwise marginally comfortable (cozy like a cafe…), albeit being a bit outdated and tremendously cramped (…or cozy like a basement). The service somehow managed to be personable and quick as well as snippy and mind-numbingly stupid, unable to answer simple questions like, “how long is the wait?” or “what is your best pizza?” and inexplicably throwing down full glasses of water on adjacent tables, splashing our party in the process. Modern’s menu consists of a limited variety of Italian appetizers and entrees, as well as sandwiches and calzones in addition to traditional apizzas, apizza specialties including crabmeat, clam, tuna, and both Italian and Veggie “Bomb” variants, and the infuriating overuse of the locally accepted term “apizza.”

Pizza. This pizza (or apizza, rather) did not exactly blow us away. In fact, it was quite average in light of what New Haven has offered up thus far. Founded on an oven-blistered, chewy, and uncharacteristically floppy crust, this (a)pizza was incredibly cumbersome and sloppy to eat while being (almost perplexingly) perfectly thin. The sauce was very simple, lightly seasoned and carrying the slight sweetness and unmistakable tang of crushed tomatoes. Unfortunately, it was in severely short supply and was thoroughly masked by the salty notes and golden brown smokiness of the high quality cheese that topped it. Further muted was the sauce in the presence of our toppings of choice: average but salty sausage and boring, flavorless, bring-nothing-to-the-table, waste-of-a-topping mushrooms. The problem with this pie was balance: an overpoweringly bad texture, a virtually dry crust, and overportioned cheese that killed the clean subtleties of an otherwise good sauce combined to create an average (a)pizza and proof that a coal-fired oven located in New Haven, CT does not necessarily spit out good pies.

The bottom line. While New Haven-style by definition, Modern’s haphazard, off-kilter “apizza” does not exhibit the unique qualities of a true New Haven pie, let alone those of a good one.

Establishment: 16/30
Pizza: 17/30
Hits the Spot: 6.5/10
Large Cheese: $14.00

It seemed like the only way to reboot the Pizza Tour was to head north and try out the real heavy-hitters in New Haven. Often touted as the world’s best, New Haven-style pizza is in a world of it’s own, surrounded by local mythologies, mind numbingly un-Italian pronunciations, and cult-like followings not unlike that of Stamford’s own Colony Grill. Fortunately, we know that some landmark pizzerias don’t live up to the hype, and we were determined to see if the iconic Pepe’s was really any different.

Establishment. Driving up to Pepe’s, we got some immediate exposure to that hype by taking a look at the line that flooded out onto Wooster Street. After no less than a 30 minute wait on a fortunately temperate summer night outside the New Haven landmark, we were ushered into Pepe’s large but somehow still cramped dining room to our brass-numbered table (table 6 if you’re interested), promptly given menus, and left to our own devices to figure out what was good. Having done our homework, we swiftly picked out their famed white clam pie (without mozzarella) as well as a red-sauced mozzarella pizza (not “plain,” mind you), fearing the consequences of not knowing what we wanted by the time the evil waiter came around. Fortunately, our server was more than accommodating and we had nothing to worry about as they proceeded to throw our pizzas of choice into their double wide trailer-sized, coal-fired oven. What’s more, they also answer their phones, aren’t cash only, and managed to get those pizzas to us pretty good time, albeit while crudely stacking them atop one another en route to the table.

Pizza. We’re usually pretty hesitant to fall into the general consensus, but this truly is one good pizza. Pepe’s unique New Haven-style pie is founded on a extravagantly chewy and oven-charred crust that looks thin, but carries the character and bite of a robust thick crust, giving your mouth quite a workout all the while. Their red sauce is chunky and tangy, with hints of natural sweetness and a big, bold texture complemented by a near-perfect array of traditional Italian flavors and seasoning. Pepe’s uses a very smooth, stringy mozzarella, with a delightful snap and salty notes that complemented the red pie well, but certainly would have been overkill on the already salty white clam number. Speaking of which, our white clam pie was likewise packed with flavors and overwhelmingly so, revolving around a plentiful selection of the clammiest clams that ever clammed and a blatant smothering of incredibly fragrant garlic. The white sauce was barely noticeable underneath these unmistakable tastes, but as you can probably tell, this was likely for the better. The only knock on this pizza is the spastic way it’s cut into all sorts of shapes and sizes—big wedges, small wedges, strips, and the like—putting the traditional Greek “stupid square slice” method to shame for no apparent reason. While the white clam dynasty that seems to rule Wooster Street didn’t quite win us over (most of us thought the red pie was vastly superior), it’s clear why Pepe’s has such a following in New Haven and beyond.

The bottom line. Pepe’s has an utterly unique product that, as much as it pains us to say it, very much lives up to its hype. It’s also better than Colony.

Establishment: 18/30
Pizza: 25/30
Hits the Spot: 8.5/10
Large Cheese: $15.10 (18")