The Truth About Lucali
How a Brooklyn pizza restaurant has handled 19 years in the limelight
We have a guest today. Olivia Weiss writes right on Franklin, one of my favorite restaurant-focused newsletters on Substack. roF is a constant source of inspiration for me, and Olivia’s taste and recommendations are unbeatable. She’s a lovely writer with impressive attention to detail and strong, carefully-considered opinions.
Olivia and I met last fall, and have been scheming about writing together ever since. After a spirited conversation about restaurants we both wanted to try, our first meal together was a pilgrimage to Lucali — the Brooklyn pizza haunt that has ascended to global fame.
I brought her in to help tell the tale of our visit (and recent revisit), and share the truth about the New York City pizza institution.
Her words are in italics, mine are not!
The Truth About Lucali
OW: The South Brooklyn restaurant first opened in 2006 and was quickly on the tip of everyone’s tongues. A reliable neighborhood spot quickly became regarded as the best pizza in the city. Over the years, it continued to receive incredible press, celebrity visits, and eager customers.
Now, seldom can you pass by without seeing a camera crew, a line of guests waiting just to put their name down for dinner service (5 hours ahead of time), and someone filming on their iPhone. All things considered, especially given my disagreements with spots that hit a trend cycle, Lucali was not in the running to become a regularly attended spot of mine. I’d never been, though, and didn’t really know anyone who had been either. The enduring fandom made me curious in a way I couldn’t quite resist, despite it not being particularly close to anything, and their reservation system being, well, an ordeal.
LB: Landing a table at Lucali was something I wanted to get right, but more importantly, something I didn’t want to get wrong. So I did my homework, scouring Reddit threads to understand the process.
Turns out, the ritual for getting into Lucali is similar to securing a spot on the tennis court at Fort Greene Park: arrive early, give your name to the keeper of the physical signup sheet, and return later when it’s your time to play. All this to say, in New York, to do what you love — play tennis; eat wood-fired pizza — you’ll need to structure your day around it.
I brought a lawn chair and set up shop on the sidewalk of Henry Street, like a suburban Italian grandpa manning his front porch. It’s impossible not to look a little silly waiting in line, so I figured I’d embrace it and make myself comfortable.
It was a perfect fall day in Carroll Gardens. The trees had mostly shed; the leaves that remained were amber and crisp. A parade of nannies walking their kids home from school passed the line by, serving light judgment about our choice of afternoon activity.
Around 4:00 pm, the line crept forward, and the hostess started jotting down names. As I neared her perch, she motioned toward me, and I stepped up to the plate.
She was curt, and I understand why — she’s dealt with dumb questions, Taskrabbit line-standers, and general nonsense every day (except Tuesday) for years. I tried to be careful, direct, and respectful with my words, as I worried that one false move — one wrong question — could result in a permanent blacklisting before I ever got to set foot inside.
I ask for a table for two at 8:00 pm. My wish is granted. “BYOB. Cash only. You’ll have the table for one hour. All members of your party need to be here to be seated. Be back 15 minutes before your time — it’s an estimate, not a guarantee.”
I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t feel a small thrill and a mild sense of achievement from my execution here. All together, it turned out to be an hour out of my day — a burden, sure, but far from an ordeal.
As I strolled back to Lucali, just hours after my line-standing expedition, I felt a mild sense of deja vu.
OW: Each time we arrived at Lucali for our designated dinner slot (I really like the idea of an in-person reservation system, should we all revert to that?), we were seated once the busy staff had time to point us to our table. The room is dark, and on a warm day, quite humid. Large tables may host family gatherings or friend outings, though I can’t tell you what it looks like to try and get a table of 10 into that dining room without getting laughed at and shooed away. Other than that, a slew of two-tops complete a very small dining room. It’s a simple space: candles illuminate tables and jars of sauce; the open kitchen has a warm tinge to it.
The most important thing I noticed during that first visit: the direction your chair faces, matters.
LB: Uh, let the record show, I gave Olivia the good view.
OW: Just millimeters outside of my periphery were tourists who had journeyed far deeper into Brooklyn than they had intended. The presence of tourists wasn’t unexpected — everyone gets to have pizza. More shocking was that everyone seemed to have their phones out the entire meal — or at least that was the case every time I looked around the dining room. Flash was on, videos were being recorded.
This is the magic of Lucali, though; it’s a spectacle. That’s why it’s featured on TikToks AND Netflix shows AND YouTube series. It’s an institution, and I can’t blame anyone for wanting to document the fruits of their labor, having landed a coveted table.
Facing the kitchen, though, you can see that the best parts of Lucali are the things you just might miss. The kitchen houses two men, barely concealed by a counter, who are slinging dough around all night. They’ll smile at you every time you make eye contact, as if to say “watch this” as they roll out pizza dough with empty wine bottles. A bowl of raw vegetables sits in front of them, an indicator that a humble bell pepper or head of garlic could be the very thing that makes your dinner memorable.
To be eating pizza as you look over the dining room is to be confused, though not at all surprised, by the company. To be eating pizza as your new friends in the kitchen smile at you, is to understand that 20 years of success can be attributed to the marriage of the tourist spectacle, and the undeniable importance of an enduring neighborhood locale.
LB: The dining room really is filled with an interesting crowd — a tapestry of people that only exists here, at Lucali. Across the way, I see the couple from Los Angeles who were behind me in line. They allocated one of their 4 vacation days toward trying the “top-rated pizza place in New York.” There’s a table of four, all wearing heavy winter puffer jackets on this unseasonably warm day. I wonder to myself which tropical climate they are visiting from.
I respect the aptitude and ambition of these NYC visitors. Carroll Gardens is not a neighborhood you’ll venture to by accident. Lucali is not a dinner you’ll stumble into.
But there are also locals here, who blend in seamlessly and cause less ruckus. Families huddled around a 6-top, celebrating Grandma’s birthday. Marco from down the street peeks his head in to pick up his carryout pie. At the end of the day, Lucali is a place for everybody, because pizza is a meal for everybody.
No matter who’s in the room, it would be hard to make it through dinner here without overhearing some chatter about Portnoy’s 9.3 rating, “El Pres said this is THE spot, man.” You’ll hear murmurs that Beyoncé and Jay-Z like to eat here. Less talked about is the knife fight between owner Mark Iacono and mobster Benny Geritano in 2011. The Lucali lore runs deep, and frankly, I believe all of it.
The room is perfectly quirky, like a neighborhood restaurant on the outskirts of Rome. There’s some tacky decor that looks like someone did a speed run through an antique store. The speakers are bumping oldies tunes that you’ll surely recognize. Other things feel so calculated: The room is perfectly dim. The jars of sauce with strips of tape reading “Lucali” affixed are all facing outward, glowing under flickering candlelight. The green and brown striped awning is kept in pristine condition, helping to maintain a low-profile feeling, even though the operation is an undeniable scene.
Lucali is a BYOB establishment, which is unheard of, really. With their level of popularity — with the amount of money they’ve made — they could surely spring for a liquor license and sell $10 beers and $18 glasses of wine, and no one would bat an eye.
But they don’t. You can slide into Carroll Grocery & Deli and grab a 6-pack for the occasion, and crack it open without hesitation.
Some of it feels like a schtick — rolling out the dough with wine bottles; “My Girl” playing — but they’re deeply committed to the bit. Lucali has found a bunch of things that work for them, and they’ve stuck to them.
OW: For example: three items on the menu, but there is no menu. There’s a special pasta, a pie (one size), and a calzone (two sizes). The server will recite the list of available toppings tableside — if you miss an ingredient she’s rattled off, you’re not getting a repeat. They’ll ask if you’re ready to order as soon as they’ve finished telling you what’s on the menu. In most restaurants, that seems solidly against the rules. Here, a guest who has been before will have an answer before anyone has visited their table at all.
Your decision-making time is brief — servers will continue to check on you routinely as they weave their way through the chairs in the dining room. Eventually, you’ll have to go with your gut or sacrifice moments of your 60-minute table allotment agonizing over an order. The options are limited, anyway.
Once you’ve ordered, the food will come when it comes. Pizza typically arrives first. It will be hot enough to burn the roof of your mouth, and even on a pizza stand, it will take over the entire table. The small serving spatula is a nice touch, but ultimately unhelpful. It feels impossible not to go in for a slice immediately with both hands and eat the too-hot slice before it can reach your plate.
The crust is thin and crunchy. Sauce and cheese levels are light enough not to weigh down its support system, but certainly don’t leave anything to be desired. Enormous sprigs of fresh basil will sit at the center of your pie, regardless of what you order, for you to tear at and sprinkle on each slice.
LB: The Lucali pie is lighter than you’d expect, and the slices are crushable. When folded, the crust doesn’t bend — it cracks. There’s a floury dustiness on the bottom that adds just a little texture. The red sauce is tangy, but doesn’t lean too bright, sweet, or garlicy. The low-moisture mozzarella is freshly-grated, which, even after a few minutes to cool, won’t amalgamate or turn plasticy. Shards of buffalo mozzarella are carefully placed, hovering above the base layer of cheese. After being fired, the pie is finished with dusting of nutty Grana Padano. The quantity of fresh basil they’re going through at Lucali is probably absurd — every basil leaf is vibrant green and remarkably fragrant.
Adding no toppings to the Lucali pie might feel boring, but it’s far from a radical maneuver. Simplicity is the name of the game, and the quality of the ingredients that adorn the “plain” pie, are all excellent.
OW: Our first time at Lucali, almost exactly one year ago, we ordered a full pie covered in hot peppers. I’m a freak for any sort of hot-pepper topping, be it on a sandwich, a pizza, a salad, you name it. I loved it on the dainty Lucali slice but it was hot, like my nose was running spicy. Returning a year later, we went a different route, and boy did we nail it. We left half the pie plain, the other half, sliced garlic and mushrooms. The garlic was a holy shit moment — thin enough slices that the topping was almost indecipherable on the dimly lit pie. They added body to the pizza that it doesn’t necessarily need but, now that I’ve had it, I couldn’t go without. The mushrooms were delicious, but the power of the garlic on that slice would’ve worked wonders regardless of what else we had included.
LB: The list of choices for your pie is pretty tight and straightforward. But whatever you do choose, expect it to punch. The hot peppers were ripping hot. The garlic is potent. The mushrooms are umami-packed. With such a simple foundation, trust that whatever additions you make won’t get lost in the mix — you’ll taste it, and it’ll taste like it should.
OW: Lucali is a place where you can’t really fuck up the order, and coming from me, that’s a generous take. You can, however, do an extra good job. If you’re a party of 2 or 3, one pie will suffice, assuming you’ll add a calzone in there. For two people, the pizza and calzone will be plenty, you’ll likely have some leftovers. For a party of three, throw the special pasta in there — why not.
LB: Even though I haven’t had it, there’s absolutely no way that spicy three-cheese fusilli is bad. But I’m aligned, it’s only something that makes sense for more than two.
OW: The calzone seems like the most skippable of the three-item menu — a dish that hearkens back to my middle school days at the suburban, inedibly greasy pizza shop I loved, where all I ever wanted was an enormous, cheesy calzone. Since becoming a legal adult, and certainly since moving to New York, procuring a calzone has never once crossed my mind.
At Lucali, they’re laughing at you for thinking you’re too sophisticated for cheesy bread. Leaving it out of your order means you’re missing out on one of the most unexpected bites in your NYC tenure.
Of the two menu items you’ve ordered, your calzone will arrive third. First, the pizza. Second, a shallow white pasta bowl, full of red sauce. Shaved cheese covers a quarter of the bowl, a spoon rests in the middle. Surely, that’s more sauce than you’d need for one measly calzone — well, maybe. But also, maybe not. When the calzone arrives, it’s cut into four large pieces, an envelope of pizza dough filled with mozzarella and seasoned ricotta oozing out of its container. You have the option to add fillings, as you do with the pizza. Our first time, we went with a straight-up, plain cheese calzone. This time, we added shallots and bell peppers — maybe a weird call, but it was amazing. The smell alone could knock you out.
I’ve never been all that inclined by super cheesy dishes, but I could never go without this calzone. It tastes like the best childhood treat you could think of, brought up about 14 levels. Each cheesy bite is supported by a crust, moments away from collapsing once you’ve spooned red sauce on top. It’s heaven. Really.
LB: I used to look forward to middle-school calzone days in a big way. It was always circled on the calendar. Calzone carries a “heavy” reputation, and this thing is no exception — it’s packed with cheese. It’s the right amount of cheese — a remarkably well-made, nicely-ratioed calzone — but still a lot of cheese. Lucali’s usage of fresh ricotta as the primary filling does lighten the load and keeps the pocket from puddling in grease.
Just like the pie, the calzone doesn’t need any additions, but the bell pepper layered in there did something for me…
If that thing landed on the table without the sauce, though, it wouldn’t hit nearly as hard. I’ll stand by it. It’s a necessary complement to cut through the richness of the creamy, cheesy creation.
Here’s the truth about Lucali:
It’s fucking good.
LB: Lucali is one of the most worthy institutions to visit in New York. It’s easy for things to get blown out of proportion — and for the difficulty of getting a table somewhere to cloud judgment on whether it’s actually any good.
But Lucali rocks. There are no tricks — nothing to hide behind on the three-item menu. A restaurant doesn’t stay this busy for this long without serving something special. It’s a concept that’s built to last forever, and I hope it does.
OW: Despite the drama about the line, the incessant press coverage, and its now global expansion to affluent hotspots (hello St. Barth), Lucali is, at its core, a perfect neighborhood restaurant. They’ve kept it simple — so simple in fact, it could almost be a bit. It’s not, though, they’re a well-oiled machine feeding Brooklyn with perfect pies, whether you’re with three generations of your family, or friends on a pizza crawl. They don’t care who you are — so long as you follow their rules, and enjoy yourself.
This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party (and right on Franklin). Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber and supporting the creative process.
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Completely coincidentally, my brother suggested we go here for our October Beef Fancy Dinner, and now I'm so glad to have these tips and hear that the rigmarole is worth it.
Making my fomo even stronger