Calvin Klein may have been the first guy to make obsession marketable, but nothing but nothing but absolutely niente will stop me from determining for the whole universe what the best pizza in New York, and by extension North America (with the lone exception of a somewhat well-kept secret in Connecticut) is. After earlier forays to Co. and Luzzo’s, last night it was time to check in to Keste, a suitably sleek, but too narrow spot in the West Village. Their pies are strong contenders for the city’s best. Chewy crust, not too thick, slightly burnt at the edges. Heart-stoppingly heavenly tomato sauce to rival Italy’s best. The best buffala mozzarella, though perhaps a tad too much of it.
The spicy salame (which is basically Italian for pepperoni) was good, but not as good as the corresponding topping at Luzzo’s. There were no olive oil bottles at the tables. My request for one was met quickly and politely. Two policemen walked in and studied the menu. I wanted to scream, “Arrest this pizza for being too damn good!” And I almost did.
But the pizza at Luzzo’s is, and yes a declaration is nigh, a percentage point or two better, making it as of today, according to me and I’m sure I’m not the only one, the best damn pizza in New York City.