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 on Wall St. in Norwalk, Fat Cat Pie Co. is a newcomer to Norwalk’s anemic pizza scene with a bit of a following. Priding itself on an extensive wine list, a vast artisanal cheese selection, and super thin crust pizzas incorporating fresh organic ingredients, Fat Cat Pizza Co. is certainly different from many, if not all, of the pizzerias we’ve reviewed until now.

Establishment. We were met at Fat Cat Pie Co. by sprawling, minimalist bar and dining areas, decked out with hardwood floors, dark painted ceilings, IKEA-esque furnishings and extremely dim lighting bordering on uncomfortable darkness. The decor is rather stark and generally nonexistent, giving the restaurant a very clean, antiseptic feel and the look of an expensive loft of someone without the time to unpack. Needless to say, there’s a lot of wall for all sorts of dining sounds to bounce off of, and while even we were having some trouble hearing our otherwise attentive and helpful waiter on a not-so-crowded evening, we can only imagine how impossible conversation is when the place is hopping on a Friday night. Fat Cat’s menu was predictably bare (we’re sensing a theme here), consisting of pizzas and salads as well as cheese plate appetizers, mildly enticing deserts (like cookies with whipped cream; exorbitantly priced, but probably still delicious), and a reasonably priced, very unique beer and wine selection.

Pizza. Our pizzas of choice were a plain cheese pie (don’t do this), one topped with house-made sausage, and one with eggplant and fresh, chopped red onions. It’s rather interesting that this restaurant calls itself Fat Cat, as this was the thinnest freaking pizza we’ve ever eaten with a crust no thicker than a Mission tortilla and barely half the flavor. Cooked to a crisp, cracker-like consistency, Fat Cat’s crust is laughingly brittle and would easily shatter if dropped. The sauce—likely a conservative splash of crushed organic tomatoes and not much else—was about as bland as the decor, with little to no distinguishable taste and barely enough of it on any given pie to even lend itself to the overall texture. Fortunately, the cheese was a more-than-passable fresh, organic mozzarella with a satisfying snap and almost smoky notes that was disappointingly underportioned on two of our pizzas (one of them being the plain cheese pie).

However, Fat Cat Pie Co. really came through on the topping front, as both the house-made (!) sausage and eggplant toppings added much-needed flavors to pizzas that were essentially built as vehicles for these additions (as such, the plain cheese pie was an abomination). Also worth mentioning are the spice caddies that follow each pie to the table, complete with the basics (black pepper, red pepper, chili powder) and some less traditional toppers (Turkish and Bangkok seasonings) that, while unique, only hammers home the point that Fat Cat is more about gimmicky toppings and spices than a quality by-the-book pizza.

The bottom line. Fat Cat Pie Co. makes a super-thin, underflavored, overpriced, gimmicky edible plate of a pizza that is only as good as the toppings offered and made us stare longingly at the conversely huge salads (which doesn’t ever happen).

Establishment: 22/30
Pizza: 14/30
Hits the Spot: 3/10
Large Cheese: $9.00 (13")