For all the fine dining I do, I harbor a healthy obsession with pizza: not “pizza as a personality” (the conceit of critics who simply lack the capacity to judge all cuisine) but a sense of pride (rooted in my nostalgia for the form and its wide-ranging appeal) in knowing where to guide people and reliably find pies that will please myself.
Trying to establish a “best”—within or especially across styles of pizza—is largely a fool’s errand. For one, convenience and dependability clearly count for something. I’m not against making pilgrimages to hallowed spots, but the expectations and sense of novelty that guide these excursions run contrary to my vision of pizza as a familiar, local food reflexively attuned with its particular neighborhood. This is the kind of product we romanticize not because it was superlative on that one special occasion in some far-flung locale, but because it was there for us on every occasion through the vagaries of daily life. In short, a pizzeria should be a personal place and a community space where, with the right support and dedication to craft, something singular emerges.
Second, while some objective markers of quality do exist (mostly as it relates to texture), any given pizza can only be understood in relation to a complex matrix of other examples. There can be no slavish devotion to “authenticity” or worship of a hypothesized ideal. The pleasure of pizza is so fundamental that, as with wine, one must make room for endless interpretations (of dough, of sauce, of cheese, of toppings) each approaching a distinct balance. One must comprehend that granular differences in salt, sweetness, and spice correspond not only to each palate’s genetic predispositions but an individual’s broader foodways and memories—inaccessible to anyone else (and dating all the way back to childhood)—underlying what pizza could or should represent.
Certainly, this applies to all eating, yet, in comparison to the pomp and circumstance and conscious experimentation that define tasting menus, I find in foods like pizza a real reckoning with the essential subjectivity of taste. Here, I do not have to talk about the ambiance, the quality of service, the pricing of the beverage program, or even the value of the food quite as much or even at all. I need only judge execution—and consistency—of this pizza, positioning it in relation to a bunch of other pies exhibiting kindred qualities and guiding consumers in the satisfaction of their own preferences. The task feels more nuanced and technical because the range of comparison is so great. As with the evaluation of wine, I can only form one yardstick—one guidepost—through which the reader comes closer to their own vision of perfection.
Anyway, PIZZ’AMICI is a spot in my own neighborhood that has quickly put its stamp (at least when it comes to this beloved genre) on the dining scene. The pizzeria’s lineage can be traced back to 2018 and the Eat Free Pizza project that Billy Federighi, Cecily Federighi, and Brad Shorten first launched out of an apartment in Ukrainian Village. Originally, the neighbors wanted to “open a bar together” and learned “it was easier to get an incidental license if you had food.” Their “social experiment” quite literally centered on giving away pies through Instagram, allowing the team to “perfect…[its] dough recipe” at a faster pace and slowly build a following. Their earliest pizzas displayed a puffed crust, moderate charring, and a blend of traditional and artisanal toppings I would place somewhere between the neo-Neapolitan and New York traditions. Eventually, the team debuted a Sicilian pan style, documenting their research trips to Italy along the way.
The key moment would come at the start of 2020 when Eat Free Pizza announced a brick-and-mortar location as part of Maria’s Packaged Goods and Community Bar in Bridgeport. Titled Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream, the concept marked a collaboration with Kimski and Pretty Cool Ice Cream centering on the team’s latter, pan-style of slice. The pandemic would put a damper on these plans: delaying the opening of this permanent space and forcing the Eat Free Pizza crew to ply its trade at pop-ups and charity events. Eventually, a walk-up window and some patio seating would allow Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream to fulfill more of its intended vision (with the team even bringing back its original round pie on select nights).
Nonetheless, the pandemic would ultimately prove determinative. It inspired Eat Free Pizza to finalize its tavern-style recipe (one it had been toying with since 2019) for the sake of providing a more delivery-friendly option during the fall and winter of 2020. With the Sicilian pans relegated to more of a seasonal (or occasional pop-up) item, this thinner crust became Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream’s de facto flagship. The tavern-style pie quickly proved worthy of that status, cementing the concept as one of the pandemic year’s success stories and ranking among the best examples of the form in Chicago (something I can personally attest to).
2021 would provide the team with a sense of stability that was missing the year prior, empowering them to play with a range of limited time tavern-style specials (e.g., “Pepper and Egg,” “’Inauthentic’ Mexican,” “Guanciale and Ramp Pesto”) and even expand their operation. Located at Marz Community Brewing, Eat Free Pizza on Marz saw the launch of 15- and 18-inch rounds pies made in the style of the project’s original pizzas. This residency would run from November of 2021 through September of 2022, and Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream itself would close at the end of the same year.
By that point, the Federighis and Shorten were already running Kim’s Uncle Pizza out in Westmont. Named in honor of Uncle Pete’s Pizza and its owner Kim Sinclair (who previously occupied the space), this concept kept the tavern-style form that had proven so popular in Bridgeport and adapted it to the building’s original Faulds oven (from 1954). Critical acclaim (at both the local and national level) soon followed, confirming the Eat Free Pizza team’s golden touch. To this day, Kim’s Uncle remains a rare destination restaurant (the kind Chicagoans and tourists alike may journey to) in the western suburbs.
The concept’s success would eventually set the stage for PIZZ’AMICI’s own launch. Shorten is from Westmont, so it made sense for him to take over Kim’s Uncle (in what was described as an “amicable business split”) while the Federighis would return to Chicago and serve the “cult following” Eat Free Pizza that had built there and stoked throughout the Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream days. The couple chose a former barbershop in West Town—not too far from where this adventure first started—as their permanent home, opening PIZZ’AMICI to the public on November 15th, 2024.
I was there on that first night, and I’ve been back seven times since. What more is there to say? This piece will center on observations made during late February and early March.
Let us begin.
1215 W Grand Avenue is a fitting place for a pizzeria. In fact, PIZZ’AMICI more or less borders one: abutting the parking lot for Salerno’s, a place slinging double dough and, yes, tavern-style pies (alongside a broad menu of Italian fare) just two doors down. Elina’s (whose bread basket includes a delicious pizza bread) lies just across the street while Mart Anthony’s, a block south, makes its own version of “super thin-crust” too. Following Grand west, one quickly finds Coalfire and its namesake pies. Following the street east (just a bit further), one encounters D’Amato’s with its pan pizza available by the slice.
Zooming out even further, one can find Bartoli’s, Bonci, D’Agostino’s, Dante’s, Forno Rosso, Macello, Nancy’s, Nonna’s, PB&J, Pie-Eyed Pizzeria, Prince Street Pizza, Professor Pizza, Ranalli’s, and Tortorice’s all serving pies in the wider area—and that not counting any of the larger chains!
But on Grand, joined also by places like Bari and Tempesta, PIZZ’AMICI finds a fitting home: a tiny Italian enclave that blends old and new names and, while not entirely free of competition, does not really step on each others’ toes. Salerno’s, after all, occupies a sprawling brick building and seats several times the number of customers that its new tavern-style neighbor can. Yes, it’s a familiar, dependable place one can expect to be there for them, their larger party, and even their private event in a pinch.
PIZZ’AMICI (a portmanteau of “pizza” and “friends”) certainly endeavors to be the same kind of restaurant—its tagline, after all, is “where friends eat!” But the combination of a small space and peaking popularity (now enduring nearly four months on) complicate this process. So, too, does the acceptance of reservations (uncommon but not unheard of for pizzerias): a decision, though welcome to some diners, that takes many of the tables out of play for enthusiastic walk-ins. Add in the fact that even pickup orders can sometimes get overwhelmed (and, thus, shut off), and one is left with a neighborhood spot that can seem surprisingly inaccessible, shockingly unfriendly.
Really, PIZZ’AMICI is not unlike the aforementioned Elina’s: an upstart operating within a classic, beloved genre, embracing the mood and symbolism consumers have come to associate with that chosen tradition, but driving quality to a new level thanks to a particular training and set of recipes and, in equal measure, a fundamental intimacy that ensures consistent, faultless execution. This latter quality, I think, is somewhat a consequence of these young guns lacking the same resources as (or just entering the marketplace much later than) their forebearers. Places like Elina’s or PIZZ’AMICI open in whatever space they can with owner-chefs that are hungry to prove themselves, night after night, with an edge that established restaurants generally lose over time.
In some sense, this is just the circle of life. However, with social media, the process is supercharged: young supplants old in the blink of an eye, the reservation books fill, the locals feel left out, and the neighborhood looks with resentment upon the newfangled place that leapfrogged its peers without seemingly paying its dues. Certainly, I would not say this is entirely the case here (as those from the area, myself included, have indeed embraced PIZZ’AMICI), but, just the same, the sudden difficulty at securing one of these pies, in a city as partisan about the food as Chicago, has inspired a current of skepticism. Rather than approaching the restaurant on its own terms (and with a chance at being pleasantly surprised), naysayers come saddled with the expectation that it must indeed be “the best” or otherwise only a nefarious product of “hype.” The least charitable of critics take one look at the owners and label them dilettantes: masters of the dark arts of marketing for whom pizza only forms the most palatable route to self-promotion.
This is the kind of argument I certainly like to indulge in from time to time. If I were late to the party (scrounging for reservations after PIZZ’AMICI’s star had already been born), perhaps I would be tempted to pursue it here. Yet any errant expectations are not the fault of the business—one that made no claim to being “the best”—so much as a surrounding culture of influencers and “journalists” who feed on having a next big thing (the more exclusive the better) to tout. Certainly, PIZZ’AMICI invited some of these figures to their pre-opening “friends and family” service, but this was not a Feld or Akahoshi Ramen strategy where years (even a decade) were spent creating content on periphery platforms in order to establish “expertise,” bad mouth other establishments, build a following, and one day cash it in.
The Federighis, for what it’s worth, have clearly paid their dues: the desire to open a bar in Chicago led to experimentation with pizza, which led to an actual passion for pizza, and giving pies away for free quickly led to a real business (Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream), to a practical embrace of tavern-style (long before the it would reach the pages of The New York Times), and a second establishment (Kim’s Uncle). PIZZ’AMICI’s owners have a pedigree worth noting—experience serving the city, a respect for those who came before, a proven recipe, a certain amount of local acclaim—and that should temper any temptation to tarnish the concept as a pure marketing construction. While a certain sense of style and exclusivity and those impossible-to-get reservations (which really just demand a modicum of planning or some facility with OpenTable alerts to surmount) may continue to annoy those looking in from the outside, but these qualities—or realities—were not contrived to obscure a lack of talent or relation to the community.
I think I was lucky to observe the restaurant and form an opinion on its food before the first set of reservations even went live. To be clear, I did not know the Federighis and still don’t (though at this point I am at least recognized by face as a regular customer). I had sampled Pizza Fried Chicken Ice Cream once and Kim’s Uncle twice (finding them good, even great, but not worth the trouble of regularly sourcing) and welcomed an iteration of the same style somewhere closer to home. I didn’t even really think I’d write about the place—it would just fall into a repertoire of local options.
PIZZ’AMICI occupies the ground floor a three-story brick building: one that counts the aforementioned Salerno’s parking lot (“For Customers Only. All Others Will Be Towed At Owners Expense.”) and a couple small residences as its closest neighbors. A barber, a car wash, a walk-up coffee shop, a florist, a hardware store, a sandwich shop, and a spa make up the rest of the block, which feeds on Ogden Avenue’s traffic and is punctuated by the presence of Twisted Spoke at its northwest corner.
The restaurant’s façade is distinguished by signage calling for the reelection of Walter Burnett Jr. (who has represented the 27th ward as alderman since 1995 and also currently serves as Chicago’s vice mayor) and by worn white trimming (in a variety of columnated, squared, and radial patterns) that rises up toward the roof. This combined effect hardly screams “hotspot.” Rather, PIZZ’AMICI fades into the background and looks to harmonize with the other, legitimately older Italian spots nearby. Only a set of neon signs, crowning the curtained windows that frame the front door, announces the concept. Stepping up and preparing to step inside, I spot a mass of bodies that confirms the pizzeria’s popularity: some seated at the bar, others around white tablecloths, and still more crowding the tiny entryway in search of a walk-in wait time or pickup order. Add in the occasional stroller or car seat (for who loves pizza more than kiddos?), as well as the shuffle of patrons leaving the dining room, and one is left in a precarious position: negotiating personal space and order of arrival without hovering over any of the seated customers’ meals.
PIZZ’AMICI opened with some 30 seats spread across 10 tables (predominantly four-tops and two-tops with the capacity to sit a fifth guest at the former or combine several of the latter to fit even more) and seven stools at that rear bar. Eventually, the restaurant nestled a high-top in each of the corners closest to the neon signs: putting four more chairs in circulation (as a response to soaring demand) while blocking off the nooks that customers naturally used to wait. Though this has complicated the check-in process, it was undoubtedly the right decision: tavern-style is at its best when enjoyed on location, and enabling more people to do so here should always take precedence.
Plus, more practically, the front of house does a good job of managing the flow of patrons. Those picking up are warned not to arrive too far in advance of their stated time while a team of three servers (one of whom will eventually manage the bar program) and one busser take turns breaking away from their respective tables to receive guests. This effort is led by Cecily Federighi herself—operating as maître d’, floor manager, and all-around factotum (as any good owner should)—who warmly greets her customers and, for those dining in, conscientiously checks to ensure each party is enjoying their meal.
When considering how many people walking in on any given night will be faced with some form of disappointment (i.e., a lamentably long wait or inability to be accommodated altogether), the team’s attitude is admirable. I have never gotten the sense (in my own interactions or when overhearing others) that PIZZ’AMICI believes in its own preeminence and takes turning anyone away lightly. On those occasions, the staff always takes care to explain where, when, and how to make a reservation (likewise, the best times to arrive without one), looking to convert potential disappointment—a sense of inaccessibility—into a promise that prospective diners can, indeed, join them soon.
Those who are lucky enough to be seated will find that service reflects the same philosophy. The team is young (aligning with the age of the owners) but totally unpretentious. They handle guests with a sense of ease and patience that affirms this is a humble neighborhood spot and not a self-consciously flashy venture. (I am reminded of one occasion when the sparkling wine I brought exploded and soaked the tablecloth and floor. This embarrassing moment, attracting glares from other guests, was handled with an endearing nonchalance by the busser. I have seen other incidents—like broken glassware—handled with the same confidence.)
Though the servers are not afraid to catch up or joke around when the chance presents itself, they remain attentive in their core tasks of promptly taking orders then delivering and clearing plates. Dessert is offered in due time once the pizzas are done, but I’ve never felt rushed (even after slowly enjoying a generous number of pies). I do think that getting a refill of water (the larger bottles provided to fill individual cups) can take concerted effort; however, this will likely improve once beverage service formally begins and the staff starts paying closer attention to empty glasses. Otherwise, the front of house at PIZZ’AMICI is more than equal to the task: forming a friendly face to the business and smoothly facilitating the dining experience with a sense of responsibility and gratitude that flows from the very top.
It is upon reaching one’s table—away from the chaos of the entryway—that some sense of the restaurant’s detail and ambiance comes into focus. Building on the red neon and white tablecloths, black and white checkered flooring (actually painted wood), mosaic tile (spelling the restaurant’s name), the white marble bartop, hints of patinaed metal, and red leather stools enliven a space that is otherwise clad in neutral tones of brown and cream. Lighting—drawn from hanging lamps, candles, and the reflection of that same neon—is decidedly warm and feels especially moody later in the evening. Music (of the prototypical “Italian restaurant” variety with a contemporary twist) is moderate and the overall noise level is generally manageable despite the intimate space. (I count one night when a particularly boisterous party made it hard to hear my guests but, otherwise, have encountered little trouble.)
To that point, the other customers certainly do a lot to define the space. Given pizza’s broad appeal and modest price (as well as PIZZ’AMICI’s particular popularity), they comprise a rather diverse cross section of the city: young and old, locals and tourists (suitcases in tow), and groupings of friends, couples, business associates, and families that may be casually, professionally, or fashionably dressed. As usual, it is middle-aged white and Asian customers that make up the majority. Given the neighborhood and the owners’ intentions, one can usually note an Italian-American contingent among the guests. But, relative to many of the spaces (typically fine dining) I write about, this is the rare place where I’ve seen people of pretty much every background come together in common enjoyment.
This is the essence of what PIZZ’AMICI has built: a sleek space that winks at the genre’s romanticized past (the neon, the checkerboard, the leather, and the tablecloth) but otherwise recedes into being more like a blank canvas. Yes, apart from a couple paintings, a movie poster for a Loren-Mastroianni comedy, and an assortment of family photos (the hidden emotional core of the restaurant), the walls really are almost bare. The surroundings make way for the essential intimacy of the dining room and the energy of those one shares it with to define the space. The timeless joy of eating pizza, amongst the crowd, in classically styled surroundings, in a part of the city that still echoes the Italian diaspora, just feels effortlessly sexy. No glitz, glam, or gimmicks are required—just an ironclad commitment to quality that guided the best of these concepts (the local tavern, the red sauce joint) then and now.
Overall, the Federighis have captured something intangible in the aesthetic and ambiance of their restaurant. Restraint, certainly, is a big part of the equation—a lightness of touch drawn from a love for this particular culture and a thoughtful distillation of its iconography. Even more, they have invigorated PIZZ’AMICI with a titular friendliness—a sense of comfort and community—that reflects the idealized “neighborhood spot.” Ultimately, they have conjured a feeling for which there is no easy formula.
Of course, those struggling to secure their own seat at the table will be tempted to view this all as so much pap. But I jostle to make reservations (or plan to walk in early) like anyone else, and I still find myself rewarded—cared for—when doing so.
In a manner reminiscent of Elina’s (though I think this has less to do with the bad conduct of a previous restaurant tenant and more to do with the space’s previous life as a barbershop), PIZZ’AMICI has had to operate without a liquor license during its first months of existence. On one hand, this is a shame: bar lead Sean Giordano (gamely helping out as a server while waiting to ply his trade) has been eager to debut a program featuring “classic Italian cocktails” each with “something interesting about them” (like, say, a martini made from pepperoni-infused gin).
On the other hand, the prospect of bringing my own wine to a tavern-style spot—imbibing while waiting for the pies to arrive and enjoying a prized bottle while the pizza is at its crispiest—has long been a dream. As much as I love their work, Novel Pizza Cafe and Bungalow by Middle Brow (the latter due to an understandable preference for their own fermented drinks) do not allow this. And the form’s essential snackability (rooted in its “drinking food” origin) really empowers eating with one’s hands, grabbing a stem, making conversation, and generally having a good time.
Though PIZZ’AMICI says it’s “BYOB,” it actually charges a $20 corkage fee. Considering that the actual pies start at $21, this is not insignificant. Considering that the only glasses provided (at present) are humble water tumblers, it might even be crazy. As far as I know, the $20 is a net price that covers all the bottles of beer or wine or soda a party may bring. After one occasion in which a server broke a couple of my corks (waiving the corkage fee as an apology), I have taken to bringing my bottles pre-opened. I also bring my own stemware and have found (being a table that orders generously, tips well, and leaves excess wine for the staff) the $20 is waived. Whether this is a courtesy only extended to me or to other guests as well I cannot tell you.
Practically, if one is not crazy enough to haul glasses around, it is best to stick to sparkling wines, highly expressive “natural” styles, and simpler, crushable styles in general that will all be less affected by the water tumbler’s inhibition of aromatic qualities (which ultimately influences the perception of flavor). Otherwise (and this goes for when the restaurant does have stems), I like pairing Champagne or Chardonnay with the bready notes of the pizza’s crust and its finishing touch of pecorino. An off-dry style of Riesling can work well with the tang and slight sweetness of the pie’s tomato sauce (as well as the heat from toppings like giardiniera or jalapeño). Finally, lighter, red-fruited styles of Pinot Noir, Nebbiolo (or Barbera/Dolcetto), and Sangiovese can blend well with the umami and herbaceousness of the tomato sauce along with the range of meat toppings available. Generally, I would look to avoid darker fruit or pronounced tannins given tavern-style’s fleeting presence on the palate. However, this is drinking food at the end of the day, and anything one enjoys imbibing can be made to work with the right ratio of slices to gulps.
When PIZZ’AMICI obtains its liquor license, the restaurant is set to debut an “Italian-only wine list” from consulting master sommelier Ken Fredrickson (managing partner of High Road Wine & Spirits). Billy Federighi has described his desired style (aptly in my opinion) as “natural, crushable, and approachable.” I think Fredrickson will guarantee a program that is well above what one would expect from a neighborhood pizzeria. However, I do not think the High Road book (though I like ARPEPE and Stella di Campalto) is really geared toward this contemporary (admittedly polarizing) style of winemaking (never mind that acting as both a wine list consultant and a distributor seems to go against the spirit of the three-tier system). One must trust that the PIZZ’AMICI list will feature the cream of the crop of Italian natural wine, more broadly sourced, that one finds at places like Cellar Door Provisions, Easy Does It, and Elske.
Otherwise, I simply hope that the corkage fee—perhaps even inclusive of proper stemware—will remain once the full beverage program debuts. I could even tolerate an increase in price if necessary ($20 or even $40 per bottle, not all-in, seems like a healthy sum when compared to the couple cocktails or glasses many diners might order). At the end of the day, enjoying fine wine, alongside food that delivers such naked pleasure, in a buzzy but comfortable place, is a thrill one finds in other major cities but not yet in Chicago. PIZZ’AMICI could very well be the place.
At last, it comes time to order. Though the restaurant’s oven (an electric PizzaMaster model) can hold 30 pies at a time, the constant flow of customers (both dining in and picking up) and care for quality here mean that ordering “Antipasti” is a good idea. In theory, only ordering the tavern-style might mean that the main event arrives sooner. Certainly, I’ve never seen pizzas come out and crowd the table while guests are still enjoying their appetizers. Plus, with the effort required to secure these seats, why not stay a while?
To begin, one finds a serving of “Focaccia” ($8) that is also included with the “Caponata” ($14) offered further down the list. While the prospect of filling up on bread at a hyped pizzeria may seem crazy, the resulting loaf (made in-house daily) provides the first confirmation of Billy Federighi’s talent. Arriving warm, the focaccia displays a browned, crisp, amply salted exterior in combination with a fluffy, bubbly, open crumb. Though perfectly enjoyable on its own (or with the accompanying pads of Italian butter), the bread really sings with the caponata.
This chunky eggplant salad—filled with bits of tomato, bell pepper, caper, and olive then topped with fresh mint—delivers a subtle crunch, lingering moistness, and lip-smacking sweet and sour flavor that is also beautiful by itself but yields further length and pleasure when paired with the focaccia’s notes of butter and salt. Both these dishes are far better than they need to be. In fact, they are downright great: speaking to a sneaky depth of quality that I think characterizes the entire experience here.
Salads form a more conventional means of readying one’s palate for the pizza to come, and PIZZ’AMICI offers two or three of them on any given night. The “Caesar Salad” ($16) is a standby: so popular—so overdone—that it has somehow swung back around to being nostalgic and charming again. To distinguish its recipe, the restaurant substitutes croutons for toasted breadcrumbs and parmigiano for pecorino. They also top the salad with premium white anchovies, imbuing this salad with all of the umami one might expect while allowing the dressing to remain cleaner and brighter in its composition.
PIZZ’AMICI’s only error comes in its use of “delicate greens” (i.e., escarole and Bibb lettuce) instead of romaine or even kale. The chosen leaves buckle under the dressing and come out feeling wet and sloppy on the palate. The breadcrumbs and gratings of cheese do their best to maintain some sense of texture, yet all the good flavors at hand remain in desperate need of supporting crunch. If the choice of greens (or amount of dressing applied) was better managed, I think this take on the recipe would be successful. However, as it stands, the Caesar offered just across the street (at Elina’s) outclasses this version in every aspect but the anchovies.
While a simple “House Salad” ($12) is more successfully executed (if unexciting), the “Chopped Salad” ($16)—occasionally offered as a special—ranks as the best of the bunch. This combination of iceberg lettuce, artichoke hearts, chickpeas, red onion, salami, pecorino, and pepperoncini delivers all the varied crunch and tang one could want at this early point in the meal. In my opinion, this salad feels more prototypically Italian-American than the Caesar at this point (given that the latter has become so deeply ingrained in the wider national cuisine). Elina’s, to be fair, serves both of these recipes. However, PIZZ’AMICI’s rendition of the “Chopped Salad” might even surpass its neighbor’s, and I think this is the dish that deserves a permanent place on the menu.
At the more substantial end of the “Antipasti” selection, one finds “Carol’s Meatballs” ($17). This blend of Slagel Farms beef and pork yields a moist, flawlessly smooth mouthfeel that is offset by the subtle texture of the breadcrumbs, pecorino, and parsley that serve as a topping. An accompanying sausage ragù amplifies the meat’s character, providing an encompassing coating of tangy tomato and savory depth that ensures each bite of the sizable ball delivers the same pleasure. Again, I must draw a comparison to Elina’s (whose “Silvio’s Meatballs,” in terms of consistency always seemed a bit too firm) and declare PIZZ’AMICI the winner. This dish makes for another great surprise, going well beyond what one would expect from a pizzeria.
Finally, there’s the “Sausage & Peppers” ($17): another success, but one that does not feel quite as superlative as the “Meatballs.” The links are sourced from Makowski’s Real Sausage in Bridgeport (the same purveyor used at Kim’s Uncle) and feel plump and juicy on the palate (with no perceivable sense of casing). In combination with roasted green peppers, onions, potatoes, and a garnish of lemon and parsley, the pork feels satisfyingly meaty, fleetingly sweet, and a touch piquant. The potatoes, if I were to be critical, could be crisped much more—they’re tender but kind of lifeless at present. Nonetheless, this is a respectable dish that delivers what’s promised and helps broaden the number of cooked appetizers on offer.
As impressive as many of these “Antipasti” are, nobody is coming to PIZZ’AMICI with them in mind. Rather, it is the quality of the main event—those tavern-style pies (which, to be clear, the owners term “Chicago thin crust”)—that almost solely characterizes whether the rest of the experience (good or bad) is worthwhile.
Having dined at the restaurant eight times and picked up pizza another four, I have savored close to 30 examples of Federighi’s work here. From this sample, I can only identify two clear (if minor) flaws. First, the Italian beef I chose to top one of my pies on opening night arrived overcooked and dry. However, when selecting this ingredient across many of my subsequent visits, it has otherwise been tender and juicy. Second, the outermost sections of crust can sometimes be cooked to the point of pronounced blackness. I am not talking a hint of black (something I deem acceptable for this style), but enough to stamp these pieces with a particular note of char. I only count receiving one or two pies in total where this was really apparent. Nonetheless, it’s the kind of mistake that I think can prove persistent any time the kitchen loses a bit of focus.
Otherwise, I have generally found PIZZ’AMICI’s crust to offer a balanced, reliably crisp example of the tavern-style form. In thickness, it lands right between Bungalow by Middle Brow’s sheer, cracker consistency and Novel Pizza Cafe’s slightly more substantial, breadstick-like dough. Among these three establishments (looking solely at the pies), I do not see an obvious winner. They jointly rank as my favorite practitioners in this genre, and they each represent distinct points on a continuum whose ultimate primacy can only be judged in accordance with personal taste. Yes, these varied approaches actually enrich appreciation of the others (even if only to guide consumers away from a certain extreme).
PIZZ’AMICI, like its peers I just named, excels in ensuring the innermost piece (i.e., the very center of what is a five-by-five grid of slices) is always crispy. For me, this is the ultimate test of a tavern-style pie: for, whether one prefers a proper “cracker crust” or one rendered just a bit thicker, the form lands at the thinnest end of the pizza style spectrum. This particular approach represents an extreme, and there is no point in pursuing it unless one goes all the way. Plus, given how synonymous tavern-style is with the “party-cut” portioning of the pie into squares (and how abnormal this can seem to outsiders), ensuring the quality of the middlemost piece seems like a point of pride. Finding sogginess there (though some may appreciate a certain gooeyness from the cheese) feels like a tacit indictment of the entire pizza: this is not a soupy or floppy part of a larger Neapolitan or New York slice but an entire, singular piece that is allowed to flounder.
When eating tavern-style, I have a habit of always going for these innermost pieces (out of curiosity, a desire to comprehensively evaluate the pie, and the expectation that my guests will prefer the outer circumference of crust). At PIZZ’AMICI, this middle slice reliably displays ample rigidity with some of the golden- and dark-brown spotting I’d expect from squares closer to the edge (see pictures taken from the two pizzas I enjoyed at the restaurant in late February).
At the same time, corner pieces may tend toward a darker brown tone with some hints of black (see picture from one of the two same pies). Often, the kitchen is able to avoid even this small amount of interior charring altogether, achieving a crust that (apart from a brittle edge) is beautifully golden-brown all the way through. However, in practice, I think erring on this side of doneness is acceptable. I speak not of charring that carries through the interior of slice (what I earlier noted can be an occasional flaw), but of a mere kiss whose bitterness is easily subsumed by the rest of the bite’s composition.
The archetypal PIZZ’AMICI pie arrives at the table hot—not scalding—and easily separated into its individual, party-cut squares. Those at the outermost end, displaying a frill of crust, do impart a bit of that brittle “cracker” sensation. However, their interior (and the interior of all other slices stretching toward the center) crunches, crunches, and crunches (with more of a broader, breadstick consistency) before yielding to a slight chew (with the diffusion of the cheese) and a clean finish. Yes, to be critical, I might say that the dough lacks much depth: it tastes very mildly “bready” without any distinguishing flavor. However, at a textural level, it does its job perfectly: eminent snackability, throughout the entirety of the pie, with a consistency I do not find at Chicago’s legendary, old guard pizzerias. In my experience, it surpasses Kim’s Uncle too.
If one considers the crust here as a simple vessel then more weight, surely, must be placed on the sauce. Here, the tomato displays a mild tang with an appreciable sweetness that avoids seeming cheap or sickly. Rather, there’s a homey quality to the sauce—tinged with the classic Italian oregano—that, combined with each slice’s faultless crunch, transports me to a nostalgic place. The mozzarella certainly does its part too: nothing special, just careful distribution (avoiding excess moisture or mess) and a rich, creamy sensation that brings sauce and crust together. It’s actually the application of pecorino—just a sprinkle over each slice (though this process can sometimes be uneven)—that really boosts the pie. The cheese’s salt and sharpness plays well against the sweetness of the tomato, rounding out the pizza and imbuing it with an addictive, just-one-more-slice quality befitting the form.
Ultimately, I think it is telling that PIZZ’AMICI’s “Plain Cheese” pie ($21) is arguably the most impressive option. I will sometimes pay a dollar more for an extra grating of pecorino, but generally, a paucity of toppings really allows the restaurant’s fundamentals to sing. These core qualities, more than any gimmick or marketing push, are what the concept really hangs its hat on.
That being said, I have certainly explored the restaurant’s full range of options over the course of my visits (only really beginning to prefer the plain cheese more recently). “Pepperoni and Mike’s Hot Honey Drizzle” ($28) is a popular combination: amplifying the sauce’s sweetness while bringing in a dose of spice that, along with the charred cups salami, provides more boldness and complexity. The “Sausage and Roasted Red Pepper” ($28) makes use of the same Makowski’s blend mentioned earlier (rendered here as small nubs), and I think its mild, savory character blends well with the smoky-sweet pepper to make for a well-balanced pie.
The “Mauro Provisions Italian Beef and J.P. Graziano Giardiniera” ($28) allows diners to combine two of Chicago’s totemic foods in one package, resulting in a particularly meaty pie (one in which the beef obscures the tomato a little) with an extra layer of crunch from the pickled peppers. At its best, this pizza really does replicate the sandwich while, at the same time, also overshadowing the crust and sauce to some degree. Finally, there’s the “Jalapeño and Onion” ($26): a combination that marries heat (without the giardiniera’s firmness) and sweet (from allium rather than honey) with a sense of subtlety. I have come to really like this option due to how little it interferes with the core texture of the pizza.
Federighi, for what it’s worth, calls the “Sausage and J.P. Graziano Giardiniera” ($28) his signature pie. I haven’t tried this particular pairing, but it’s easy to see the custom pork blend (which is not at all hot) and pickled peppers harmonizing well (perhaps with more supporting sweetness and spice than the Italian beef provides).
Once one has eaten their fill of pizza and sent any leftovers away to be boxed up, the server may ask about dessert. PIZZ’AMICI offers a lone “Gelato Trio” ($7) of hazelnut, pistachio, and vanilla sourced from an unnamed purveyor in the suburbs. Creamy (with some fine, perceptible grains of nut) and intense in its flavors, this bowlful is far better than it needs to be. Actually, it’s impressive: making for a sweet ending that also offers a pleasant reprieve from the hot and savory toppings that might have featured on the pies.
With that, the check arrives: no service charge, no auto gratuity, just a plain old receipt like one might expect from a pizzeria (but not necessarily a restaurant that can trade on such hype). When it comes time to go, the servers and co-owner bid guests a gracious goodbye. The patrons crowding the entrance do their best to make way (knowing, perhaps, that each departure brings them closer to enjoying their own pie). And, indeed, shortly after each party finds its way back onto Grand, their sauce-stained tablecloth makes way for a clean one—destined for the same fate in due time.
In the final analysis, as much as I have enjoyed my visits here, any temptation to label PIZZ’AMICI “the best” in its craft really runs contrary to what makes the restaurant exceptional. Certainly, “insiders”—content creators of all flavors—will enjoy perpetuating that myth: squeezing as much value from their conspicuous consumption as possible while vexing “outsiders” (the great mass of pizza-loving Chicagoans) unaccustomed to midnight reservations, late afternoon lineups, and haphazard walk-ins just to get a taste of this coveted pie. It bears repeating: nobody who stokes FOMO (especially about a food as democratized as this one) is your friend, and they are not even being as kind to the target of praise as they might think.
The charm of PIZZ’AMICI, which I sensed on opening night and have carried through subsequent (if increasingly hard to book) visits, comes from quiet excellence in a timeless, neighborhood setting. It is drawn from enjoying pizza—consistently one of the city’s top expressions of a tavern-style pie—on a block with a sense of history, with service that feels sincere, surrounded by an ebullient crowd guzzling beer and wine while gabbing with friends. It is elevated by appetizers that are more varied and (largely) delicious than they need be: an affirmation of the team’s devotion to quality that transforms the wait for the main event into something like an actual Italian dining experience.
The Federighis are not looking to reinvent the wheel but, rather, to make their own mark on Chicago’s pizza landscape with a sense of respect and, inevitably, some degree of their own style. The graphic design they have settled on is perfectly polished. The brand they have built is sexy to the point of provoking skepticism. Yet the owners are really just slapping a new coat of paint on a concept consumers know and love and even take for granted. They are capturing and reintroducing a kind of romance that does, indeed, demand preservation. And no matter how premeditated or intuitive any of the marketing surrounding PIZZ’AMICI might have been, they are on the front lines, night after night, realizing their vision while maintaining a standard of quality that is not easily matched.
Expectations will always be the enemy of a place like this: a restaurant not looking to impress but to reliably (sometimes surprisingly) please. Labeling PIZZ’AMICI “the best” inevitably places it in competition with every diner’s pet example of the tavern-style form or of pizza in general (simply witness some consumers, led here by hype, rating the concept poorly with the admission they’ve never tried this kind of crust before and just don’t like the style!) It transforms the restaurant into an interloper, a threat to one’s personal nostalgia, rather than a small part of a wider tapestry that grows richer with each new “square.”
To my palate, PIZZ’AMICI matches the quality of Bungalow by Middle Brow (while not being limited only to Tuesdays), Kim’s Uncle (without requiring a drive to Westmont), and Novel Pizza Cafe (while offering more reliable seating/availability). For some, the restaurant might even surpass them. In terms of sheer quality, the worst slices of any given pizza here (due to variance in crispness and topping distribution) still rank as “good” while the best (i.e., crunchiest, most intense—but still balanced—in flavor) slices really are superlative—a testament to the heights this particular style, or any kind of pizza, or any kind of comfort food (carefully prepared) can reach. Factor in the appetizers (all but the “Caesar Salad” I’d happily order again) and the corkage policy, and the concept’s value proposition feels particularly sharp.
That being said, consumers should not unduly burden themselves to get here: showing up in a huff, resentful of those who bandied about their reservations, ready to pick apart a pizza—proudly traditional in construction—that cannot hope to overcome a process that felt especially inconvenient.
New York City has more than enough of those pizzeria pilgrimage sites with lines spanning blocks. Does Chicago need them too? Or do we simply need the confidence to love and support our own local tavern-style joints (many, and I will never know them all, capable of careful, consistent execution with the right instruction or motivation)? Do we just need to learn to not chase new openings so jealously or insecurely: always thinking that gustatory enlightenment waits around the next corner when only further enrichment—the kind of deeper understanding that rejects the idea of “best”—can really be found?
At the end of the day, PIZZ’AMICI represents a shining case study in how to master a craft, cultivate an audience, and break into an established genre with branding that thoughtfully blends old and new. The restaurant has also starkly revealed some of the limitations of the “foodie”/influencer/content creator paradigm: one that can effectively sell “experiences” but runs into trouble, inspiring contempt, when too heavily trying to hype the public’s cherished foods.
At a certain exposure—or overexposure—pleasure finds itself inhibited. That’s a shame, for there is plenty to be had here with the right perspective. It’s just pizza—and that is both the beauty and the tragedy of it.