Pizzería Romo

Wind was rattling the awnings along the block, and Romo's room felt like the calm answer to it. It's the Sartoria crew cooking with sleeves rolled up: blistered crusts, toppings that follow the season, service that treats you as if you lived upstairs. We split everything down the middle and squabbled over the final slice, as it should be. Asked what I would change, I can offer only this, and it is nearly a joke: make it harder to get in. A kitchen running midday and night, all seven days, leaves a woman no excuse for restraint, and my discipline around good dough was never strong. My brother would settle in here; so would my butcher. Through the year I keep landing at one of these tables without quite planning it, which tells you everything.