Neapolitan, 90 seconds, over oak.
Two of us, one oak-fired dome we call the beast, and a room that seats thirty-four. That is the whole restaurant.
The oak fire holds nine hundred and five degrees. A pie goes in pale and slack and comes out in ninety seconds, the crust blistered into leopard spots you can only get from live flame.
There is a single communal table in the room, cut from a white oak that came down in a storm in Marco's parents' yard. You sit next to whoever is next to you. Most nights that turns into the point.
“The char on that crust tastes like a campfire you can eat.”
Rhea P.
“We came for one pie and stayed three hours at the oak table.”
Dominic & Sara
Nadia keeps a short list of low-intervention bottles, mostly Italian, all open and ready to pour. It rotates when a bottle runs out, so what is on tonight is on tonight. Ask her what drinks well with the clam pie.
Poured by Nadia Ferro, by the glass or the bottle
We hold a few tables for walk-ins every night, but the room is small. Reserve ahead and we will confirm by text. Kitchen runs 5 to 11, closed Mondays.
