We went to Pepe’s shortly after we concluded our tour of Stamford, we ate at Modern shortly after that, and then—inexplicably—we waited another six months to tackle the final piece of New Haven’s holy pizza triumvirate, Sally’s. Yes, we finally braved the arctic winds waiting in yet another out-on-the-street New Haven line to round out our tour of the city’s heaviest hitters.

Establishment. As it turns out, New Haven pizzerias are all kind of the same: minimal parking, old coal-fired ovens, and long lines in the street (which can be charming on a summer evening, but painful and borderline infuriating in the dead of winter). Sally’s is no exception, with its requisite long, dimly lit, wood-paneled, ceramic-tiled, drop-ceilinged dining room spattered with pictures and articles attesting to its fame and/or Italian-ness (apparently, Ol’ Blue Eyes was a big fan of the place).

(sorry for the lack of photos, the garish, stained glass “PIZZA” bar lamps blew out all of our good interior shots).

Once we found our way inside, thawed, and were seated (no small feat in its own right) we waited a good 10 minutes to be helped, and another 35 or so to be served. In this time, we witnessed an obvious regular strut in and feed his family of six, a family of eight leave in absolute disgust after their one hour wait yielded no pizza whatsoever, and the brazen neglect of the time-honored “I’ll be with you in a sec” promise about 40 times over. But Sally’s (and the rest of the city in general) isn’t known for its kindly interest and goodwill, especially toward newbies like us; we never expected much. The menu is more or less a list of toppings, among which are the New Haven-specific white clam pie and an extraordinary emphasis on mozzarella being considered a topping. Oh, New Haven, you and your disconcerting ways.

Pizza. Once we absorbed the horrible one-two punch of waiting and terrible, impersonal service, we sunk our teeth into a medium mozz (“mootz”) pie topped with sausage. That’s two toppings if you’re keeping track.

The crust was less chewy than expected, but it was super thin, yeasty, and blistered with a hearty New Haven char in places (and burnt to a friggin’ crisp in others), making for a markedly unique taste and fingers resembling those of a chimney sweep. Crust aside, the sauce was the true crown jewel of this pizza with a strong, well-seasoned tanginess and the chunky texture of whole crushed tomatoes. The mozzarella, while somewhat of a outcast in New Haven, was superbly creamy and stringy. Further, it brought the pie together both physically and in terms of flavor, mellowing the sharp flavors of the sauce and making us wonder why it’s so much of an afterthought in these parts—without it, this is just a big cracker with sauce.

We weren’t particularly crazy about the sausage topping as Sally’s uses sliced sausage rather than crumbled, which tends to shrivel into little grease-filled cups in the oven. Plus, it tasted pretty bad. Also, as is the case with ultra thin pies like these, it cools ultra fast; even when you put it away with ravenous Pizza Tour speed, your last slice is just south of tepid. That said, we can see how Sally’s simple core product keeps people coming back, especially favored regulars that can traipse right in and throw back a few well-rounded, iconic pies while suckers like us play the waiting game on the street.

The bottom line. Sally’s certainly earns its reputation as one of the big three with a clean, textbook New Haven pie, but the unwritten rules here will leave you scratching your head.

Establishment: 13/30
Pizza: 21/30
Hits the Spot: 5.0/10
Large Cheese: $15.80 (18")

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")