New Yorkers have a thing about pizza. Not the pizza of the national chains, the ubiquitous Ray’s and their numerous namesakes, or the corner slice emporium. No, we worship at the altar of the artisan pie maker. This is probably the golden age of the pizza pie; there are now quite a few purveyors of the craft. I can’t say that I’ve tried them all that would be a caloric undertaking best left to the professionals. Nor do I want to. I’ve found the one that I want. Unfortunately I am not alone. This is not about the undiscovered pie but one that tops the list: Di Fara.

It perhaps has as many detractors as acolytes. There are some aspects to agree on: the fact of a recent coat of paint and enlargement of the kitchen has done nothing to improve the surroundings. Di Fara basically looks like your neighbor’s basement if he had a refrigerator filled with sodas: fake wood paneling, fluorescent lighting, faded Italian posters and lithographs, and newspaper clippings framed for posterity. But look a little closer and you will see the basil and rosemary plants on the shelf, the liters of olive oil and the artist behind the counter.
And like any good artist, Dom will not be rushed. On a recent Saturday night, the wait for a pie was 1 hour forty minutes. The line wrapped around the tiny storefront like some Depression-era run on a bank – for pizza – not for one’s life savings. Absurd? Perhaps but this isn’t an assembly line. A wait at Di Fara is a badge of fortitude and forbearance.

Dom De Marco is a man in his late sixties, thin, a bit stooped with large glasses overcoming his narrow face. He looks like any number of retired Italian gentlemen who frequent the neighborhood barbershop. But he is instead the craftsman at work, serious as he contemplates his canvas, no small talk for him.

Like a potter at his wheel Dom turns out his delectable pies one at a time. The broccoli rabe has to be sautéed with garlic, the sausage sliced to order, the porcini mushrooms selected and sliced, artichokes cleaned and chopped. The actual pie takes just minutes to bake in the hot oven. And then it comes out and Dom makes the final adjustments, the basil gets strewn, the grated cheeses, the circle of olive oil pored over it; into the box and then the rough divide into slices. And finally it is yours to take home and devour. Yes sometimes the crust gets a bit burned or the sauce is not as tasty as usual or you wonder what happened to the garlic but isn’t that what makes it art?

Dom put his heart and soul into that pizza; it is his life’s work and I shudder at the thought that someday he will hang up his apron and retire. But we should be grateful for his dedication and whatever the costs enjoy the fruits of his labor and the knowledge that in little more than an hour perfection awaits the patient petitioner.

Di Fara, 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn, 718-258-1367.