Best. Pizza. Ever.

Every once in a while something comes along and turns your world upside down – in a good way. In my life these things have included meeting my husband, first tasting ice cream and learning that an airplane (and some cash) could take me pretty much anywhere I wanted to go. Now I have something new to add to that list – Marco’s coal-fired pizza (http://www.marcoscoalfiredpizza.com/).

I thought I knew pizza. I’ve met Chicago-style, New York-style, Neapolitan-style, heck even something called Denver-style. I’ve eaten it on at least 3 different continents and 10+ countries. I’ve been made sick off of it, as well as made happy. I’ve celebrated birthdays, mourned deaths and talked late into the night with friends new and old over it. I thought that after a quarter of a century I couldn’t possibly learn anything more about pizza.

I was wrong.

I’d heard about Marco’s in passing, but I’d never really taken the recommendation seriously. After being misled by friends’ referrals to “the best Italian food in Denver” (canned tomato sauce), “the best Mexican food in the world” (not even edible) and “the greatest hamburger since In-N-Out” (I’d rather have Burger King, and that’s saying something), I don’t really trust many people’s palettes. I guess I have a self-important tongue. But there is someone who is usually not too far off base when it comes to restaurant recs, and he said that Marco’s, on a good day, creates a world-class pizza. World class? That’s worth a shot.

I have a co-worker with whom I’m having a food affair. We’ll call him my Food Mister (if women are mistresses, I assume the male version would be a mister) in order to protect his identity from any of my potentially jealous dining companions. FM is extraordinarily generous to me when it comes to office lunches. He’s spent more on my mid-day meals than I’d spend on vet bills to keep my dogs alive. FM has a food fetish, and I’m an easy target of affection for anyone who enjoys a lady who can eat. The first time we went out to lunch, I out-ate him at an all-you-can-eat pasta buffet. He’s been smitten ever since.

We trade off buying each other lunches, although his treats are typically considerably more expensive than mine. On Thursday, it was my turn to buy FM lunch, and so we set out to try this so-called world-class pizza. It was a fairly long walk over, but we were greeted by a promising sign – filled tables and people waiting to be seated. This place was popular. It wasn’t long until someone showed us to a table, and quickly after we both ordered the lunch special – a salad, drink and margherita pizza.

I have a theory that you can tell all you need to know about a restaurant based upon their simplest, usually cheese or margherita, pizza. On this blank canvas, an overly-sweet or processed sauce can’t hide under stacks of pepperoni. The crust’s flavor and texture can’t be masked by peppers and onions. And when cheese is the star ingredient, it better be fresh and flavorful. If the margherita pizza doesn’t taste good, there’s a pretty good chance that nothing else will either.

Naturally, the salads arrived in front of us first. I was excited to see it topped with very young-looking mozzarella, and it didn’t disappoint. Normally I’m not a big fan of salads, but if there’s enough meat or cheese tossed in, I can make due.

When FM and I go out to lunch, we usually chat quite a bit. That is, until the food comes. Then, dead silence. The only sound you can hear coming from our table is the clanking of forks hitting plates and sauces being slurped. However, this time at Marco’s, when our pizza arrived, we spoke.

“Oh my God.”
“Oh my God.”
“This is the best margherita pizza I’ve ever eaten.”
“I know.”
“No, this is the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.”
“I know.”
“The sauce –”
“So fresh, it must have been real-life tomatoes just minutes ago.”
“The crust –”
“Perfection. You can taste the flour.”
“And the cheese –”
“Is there a cow in the back?”
“This pizza is so good I want to cuss.”

And FM never cusses.

If our conversation doesn’t do a good enough job of describing just how delicious this pizza is, here’s how Marco’s describes it. “Made with San Marzano tomatoes and artisanal cheeses imported from the Italian countryside. Antico Molino Caputo flour from a third-generation family mill. A proprietary water blend that recreates the signature New York City bite. Fired together at 1,000 degrees for just 90 seconds to create an exceptionally light, tender and fragrant crust.”

90 seconds! There is nothing any human has ever done or anything they will ever do in under 90 seconds that can match the greatness of this pizza. And don’t even mention sex – not until you’ve tried this pizza.

We finished quickly. I looked over at FM and said those magic words, “Do you want to get another one?” When the busboy came by to clear our tables he asked how everything tasted.

“Fantastic,” I replied. “Can we get another one?”
“Another one?” he stuttered. “Umm, let me get your waiter.”

Our waiter returned to our table, utterly befuddled.

“You want another pizza?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, please,” I answered.
“To go?”
“No, we’ll eat it now.”
Puzzled expression. “Well, do you want another lunch special?”
“No, we don’t need the salad and drink – just the pizza, please.”
“But you have to have the salad and drink – it’s the lunch special.”
“But we just want the pizza.”
“So you just want a pizza?”
“Yes, please.”
“But it comes with salad and a drink. It’s the lunch special. You have to get the salad and a drink to get the pizza.”
“Umm, ok. Whatever it takes to get us that pizza.”

Never in my life have I finished a meal at a restaurant and promptly ordered another of the exact same thing. It’s the equivalent of riding a roller coaster at an amusement park and screaming, “Again!” to the attendant. Except fuller.

The second – or I should say third since we had each eaten our own in round 1 – pizza was just as delectable as the first, although it could have used a bit more cheese. I happily paid whatever amount of money they charged my credit card – it could have been $100 and it would have been worth it – and out we waddled. On the walk back to the office, there were a lot of “Oh my Gods” again and “That was the best pizza ever.” No real conversation, however. We were both just basking in the afterglow of that pizza.