BY: Greg Morago
For a few quivering moments, time stood still on old Wooster Street. I'm sitting in a rigid, disagreeable wooden booth at Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana yet I'm floating on a coal-fired cloud. There is an imperfectly shaped pizza before me - craggy, blistered in parts to the point of carbon - dotted with pale, orange-hued nibs of freshly shucked chopped cherrystone clams, abundant slivers of garlic, dried oregano and pink curlicues of fatty bacon.
It's the very pizza that made me swoon as a young man in the early 1980s; a creation so ideal in all its particulars that it has spoiled me for all other pies. Pepe's was the first place I stopped on a recent visit to Connecticut, eager to get reacquainted with my first (and most lasting) pizza love.
SOURCE: http://www.houstonchronicle.com
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