Operated since 1965 by pizzaiolo Dom DeMarco—well into his 70s—Di Fara was already an institution by the time I first walked in, on an unremarkable afternoon home from college for spring break. I’d told a Brooklynite buddy I’d never eaten there before and didn’t see the big deal. He drove us to Midwood immediately.
A counter, a soda fridge, a few surfaces to eat at, paisano‑schmaltz on the walls—it was then as it is now, a frumpy little box more store than restaurant. The place teemed with people, so after waiting about a half hour for our pie, my friend and I walked down the block and ate from the box open on his car’s hood.
It folded neatly, as a slice should, but without the New York signature oregano bouquet. Aromatic, lactic, salty, fatty, acidic—the perfume of basil, the salty hit of parm, the crispy bottom giving way to a satisfying chew. Each ingredient’s freshness and quality stood proud, but a puffed‑up Neapolitan this wasn’t. Familiar and novel at once; unpretentious yet undeniably a cut above. This was alchemy.
“It’s all about balance,” Dom DeMarco told me on a recent visit—that’s the younger Dom, pizza scion who took over after his father died in 2022. “I learned from him when I was a kid, standing right there,” he said, pointing to the marble slab where the old man tossed dough, ripped fresh mozz with his fingers, snipped basil over each and every pie with scissors.
But that’s not how it is anymore. And that was my apprehension on my recent visit. It was Tuesday afternoon, and there was no line—the only people inside were a few locals who were there because it’s their neighborhood pizzeria.
I ordered two slices: one with sausage, peppers, onions, and mushrooms (ungapatchka) and one plain. What would have changed? Me? The pizza? My expectations? All, undoubtedly. But, I reasoned, despite his stubbornness, change would have come for Dom the elder, too—variance within purveyors, customers’ expectations, the attention and energy a working man could muster as, one by one, his seven kids were born.
DeMarco told me he does everything the way his dad did… except for what he doesn’t. For starters, he allows other hands on the pies—but he qualified, they’re all family; in my case, in-laws. Anticipating my next question, he said, “The basil—I don’t,” miming scissors with his fingers. “It’s fresh, we just have it cut in a bowl now. It’s faster.” Continuity is maintained, he insisted, where it counts: the recipe, processes, and equipment are the same. That includes the same dough mixer, sheet pans for square pies, and the oven with its brick‑bottom cook surface—the stone that alchemizes assembled ingredients into pizza. “That came out of the earth,” Dom said of the stone. “That imparts something… Fifty‑something years of milk from the mozzarella and olive oil—it all gets baked in.”
Dozens of other pizza places have risen and fallen in Di Fara’s long shadow—some copping its style outright. I’ve eaten many of them. Good though they may be, none have matched the slice I had that spring afternoon. None ever will, including Di Fara itself. But that’s not a slight—it’s what I innately bring to bear on the experience; the same reason why nobody’s cooking will ever taste as good as mom’s or grandma’s.
I sat with the scruffy little room almost to myself, my slice on a paper plate. First, the basil aroma, then the proper fold; the crisp edge and nice chew, salty parm, melty mozz; the sauce’s simplicity and acidity. Each defining element was still present, still in balance. Had it changed? Had I?
All I know is that it’s still a delicious bit of alchemy; as perfect a slice of New York City pizza as a person could want, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.