Pizza Pizza Brooklyn Pizza

Hey everyone, welcome back to *Brooklyn Echoes*, the podcast that keeps the borough’s legends and memories alive. I’m your host, Robert Henriksen.

In the bustling, blue-collar Brooklyn of the 1960s through 1980s, where Italian-American neighborhoods pulsed with family gatherings, street festivals, and the aroma of simmering tomato sauce wafting from stoop-front kitchens, pizza wasn’t just food—it was a cultural cornerstone. This era, marked by post-war prosperity fading into urban grit with subway strikes, disco fever, and economic shifts, saw pizzerias as community hubs. Kids saved nickels for slices after school, families grabbed pies for Friday nights, and teens hung out under neon signs, debating the merits of thin crust versus Sicilian. Brooklyn’s pizza scene exploded with immigrant influences, especially from Naples and Sicily, turning humble storefronts into legends. Places like Di Fara, L&B Spumoni Gardens, Totonno’s, and Lenny’s defined the “best” not just by taste—crispy edges, tangy sauce, gooey mozzarella—but by their authenticity, consistency, and role in daily life. Today, we reminisce about them in online forums, food tours, and family stories, keeping their spirit alive amid modern chains and gourmet twists. They’re symbols of a simpler time, evoked in movies, books, and even hipster revivals, reminding us of Brooklyn’s resilient soul.

Di Fara Pizza, tucked away on Avenue J in Midwood, opened its doors in 1965 and quickly became a pilgrimage site for pizza purists. Founded by Domenico “Dom” DeMarco, an Italian immigrant from near Naples who arrived in Brooklyn in 1959, it started as a partnership (hence “Di Fara,” blending DeMarco and Farina) before DeMarco bought out his partner in 1978. In the ’60s and ’70s, you’d find Dom alone behind the counter, meticulously crafting pies in a blazing 1,000-degree oven—hotter than most—using imported San Marzano tomatoes, two types of mozzarella (fresh and dry), Grana Padano, and olive oil drizzled post-bake. The round pie was light and blistered, the square Sicilian heavier and twice-baked for extra crunch. Lines formed early, with locals from Hasidic families to blue-collar workers waiting patiently, the air thick with basil and charred dough. By the ’80s, word spread beyond Brooklyn, thanks to glowing reviews, but Dom’s hands-on approach—eating a slice daily for quality control—kept it unpretentious. Today, Di Fara is still talked about as New York’s best, ranked tops by Zagat, Eater, and Anthony Bourdain. Even after Dom’s passing in 2022, his family upholds the tradition, drawing global crowds who wax nostalgic about “real” pizza in an era of fast-casual knockoffs. It’s a testament to craftsmanship, featured in documentaries and foodie lore, where one bite transports you back to ’70s Brooklyn.

Over in Bensonhurst, L&B Spumoni Gardens stood as a block-long oasis since 1939, but it hit its stride in the mid-1950s when it evolved from Ludovico Barbati’s horse-drawn spumoni wagon into a full-fledged pizzeria and restaurant. By the ’60s, this Gravesend gem was synonymous with Sicilian-style square pizza: thick, focaccia-like dough topped upside-down with mozzarella first, then sauce, Pecorino Romano, and onions for that signature crisp bottom and tangy top. Families flocked on weekends, picnicking in the outdoor gardens with spumoni ice cream chasers—rainbow layers of pistachio, vanilla, and chocolate. In the ’70s and ’80s, amid disco and economic downturns, L&B was a affordable escape, its red-checkered tables hosting birthday parties and first dates, the scent of garlic knots mingling with summer breezes. Tragedies like a 1986 mob-related shooting added gritty lore, but the pizza endured. Today, it’s revered as a Brooklyn icon, named “Best Pizza in America” by Food Network and hailed by Eater as a culinary destination. Generations return for the square slice, sharing stories on social media or tours like A Slice of Brooklyn, preserving its family-run vibe in a borough now dotted with trendy spots. It’s not just food; it’s heritage, evoking the old neighborhood’s warmth.

Down by the sea in Coney Island, Totonno’s Pizzeria Napolitano held court since 1924, but its golden era in the ’60s through ’80s solidified its status as pizza royalty. Founded by Antonio “Totonno” Pero, a Lombardi’s alum who brought Neapolitan authenticity to Neptune Avenue, it passed to his children and grandchildren, maintaining a no-frills approach: thin-crust pies with imported Italian tomatoes, dry mozzarella, and fresh basil, baked in a coal-fired oven. In the ’60s, amid boardwalk crowds and Cyclone screams, families grabbed whole pies after beach days, the simple red-and-white interior buzzing with locals. The ’70s and ’80s brought challenges like urban decay and fires (one in 1963, rebuilt), but Totonno’s persisted, refusing slices—only whole pies—to preserve quality. No deliveries, no credit cards, just cash and conviction. Today, after 100 years and a recent ownership search, it’s celebrated as one of America’s oldest pizzerias, influencing the slice renaissance. Foodies and historians invoke it in podcasts and articles, its recipe unchanged, a link to immigrant roots amid Coney’s revival. We talk about it for its purity, a defiant stand against commercialization.

No narration of Brooklyn’s pizza heyday is complete without Lenny’s Pizza on 86th Street in Bensonhurst, a spot that captured the borough’s swagger in the ’70s. Opened around 1953, this unassuming joint served straightforward New York-style slices—thin, foldable, with zesty sauce and bubbly cheese— to a largely Italian-American crowd. But its fame exploded in 1977 with Saturday Night Fever, where John Travolta’s Tony Manero struts down 86th Street, double-stacking slices in the iconic opening scene, embodying disco-era cool. In the ’60s, it was a post-school hangout; by the ’80s, amid neighborhood changes, it remained a staple for calzones and heroes. Lines snaked out the door on weekends, soundtracked by jukeboxes blasting Bee Gees. Sadly, it closed in 2023 after 70 years, but its memory thrives in film buffs’ hearts—tours visit the site, fans recreate the scene, and articles mourn it as a loss of old Brooklyn. We remember Lenny’s for encapsulating an era’s vibe, a slice of cinema and culture that still inspires nostalgia trips and debates over the perfect double-decker.

Other gems dotted the map, like Sal’s Pizzeria in Williamsburg (opened 1967), with its elegant eggplant slices and thin crust that invited fork-and-knife dining, or Luigi’s in Greenwood Heights (1973), famous for thick Sicilian and deep-fried calzones, even serving as a set for the 1999 film Big Daddy. Sabrina’s in Williamsburg (1977) brought Latin flair with onion pizzettes. These spots were neighborhood anchors, weathering the ’70s oil crisis and ’80s crack epidemic with reliable comfort food. Today, in a Brooklyn transformed by gentrification, we honor them through revivals—some like Di Fara and L&B still sling slices the old way, others live in Facebook groups where boomers share photos, or in books like The Eclectic Gourmet Guide that first spotlighted them. Food tours, podcasts, and even modern pizzerias pay homage with “vintage” styles. They’re not forgotten because they represent authenticity in a fast-food world: the joy of a hot slice on wax paper, shared with friends under flickering fluorescents, a bite of history that tastes like home.

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