Dough Boi: Peter Reinhart expands his breadth of breads to include pizza.

Mr. American Pie

Brother Peter discovers that pizza is as pizza does

By Heather Irwin

There’s a lot that’s bad about moving some 30 times in your life, like forgetting what state you’ve just moved to or finding out they don’t have MTV in North Dakota. Or, let’s see, celebrating your most pivotal childhood birthdays at Ramada Inns.

But amidst the trauma of all that packing tape and bubble wrap, there are a few perks. Number one: the beauty of fresh starts (enough cannot be said about this). And number two: my cheese-soaked memories of eating pizza from sea to shining sea.

Before the Murphy’s Oil Soap had time to dry or the silverware was unwrapped, Dad had hauled the family wagon out for a large pepperoni and mushroom pizza in Bismarck, Houston, St. Louis, Pittsburgh . . . At this point in my life, I think I can safely say I’ve eaten pizza in at least three-quarters of the 50 states. And I loved every last pepperoni.

Like 94 percent of Americans, I am a die-hard pizza aficionado. Thick or thin, sauced or gourmet, I’ll eat it any way you slice it–and so will most of the rest of you. A recent survey by Bolla Wines found that 93 percent of us eat pizza at least once a month, for a total consumption averaging 46 slices per year. And–get this–studies show most three- to 11-year-olds prefer it over any other food. Shocking!

But as much as the commingling of cheese and tomatoes brings old and young together over the checkered tablecloth, the dark truth is that it can also be the great divider. Far beyond the anchovy debate and light years beyond ordering a soy-vegetarian pizza for the lone vegan in the office, pizza divisiveness gets ugliest over regional rifts that define one’s very soul.

Where do you draw your line in the dough? Are you a New Yorker–one of those rough-and-tumble urbanites who swears that his thin, folded slices of pie are the real deal? Home to the first American pizzeria, Lombardi’s, the Empire State leads the pack with its lengthy history and obsessive devotion to pizzerias. But is it the real deal? Yo, ask again and you’ll get decked, you crazy deep-dish eatin’ moog.

Or are you a Chicagoan, insisting that your mile-high pies are nothing short of perfection? After two years in the Windy City, I’m a convert. Then again, an inch of melted cheese could both win–and clog–anyone’s heart.

Riding the territorial pizza wave, maybe you’re a New Haven clam pizza fanatic, or a St. Louis cracker-crust devotee, or, heaven forbid, a California cultist who puts foie gras, peanut sauce or pineapple on the poor pie.

Confused? So was I. Will the real pizza stand up, already?

Ready to eat his way toward the answer, author Peter Reinhart takes both a practical and philosophical approach to the perfect pizza in his new book, American Pie: My Search for the Perfect Pizza (Ten Speed Press; $24.95). Reinhart– whom you may remember as owner of Brother Juniper’s Cafe and Brother Juniper’s Bakery in Santa Rosa–samples pizza from coast to coast trying to find the answer. Is it the crust, the sauce or simply the idea of the pizza itself?

Reinhart concludes that there aren’t any simple answers. A theologian, baker and philosopher looking for more than just a killer slice, Reinhart is looking for the answer to a bigger truth about how we eat. He describes a childhood memory of a perfect pizza from a restaurant in Philadelphia called Mama’s. Associating the stringy, cheesy goodness with a collection of boyhood rites of passage–basketball games, dating rejection, rowdy high school evenings, family dinners–the pizza was, in many ways, seared into his memory as the ultimate food. However, he proves that you can never go back when he later eats the pie in his adulthood and finds the crust just isn’t the same. It was still wonderful but somehow not the perfect pizza of his boyhood.

What was it about the pizza-of-then that was so magical? Perhaps, he opines, it was simply the synchronicity of time and place. It was a warm, safe, happy memory, much like mine, of family, friends and childhood. This goes on for a bit and is a theme throughout the book. But after a while, one can’t help but want our dear Brother to shut up with the philosophy, already, and get on with the search–and the recipes.

Thankfully, he does. Reinhart starts and ends his American search at Pizzeria Bianco in the most unlikely of places, Phoenix, Ariz. Owner Chris Bianco is a passionate crust-crafter who obviously shares Reinhart’s love for ritual and extols his own simple devotion to his best and first love: pizza.

After leaving Bianco’s benchmark pizzeria, Reinhart travels first to Italy–Genoa, Florence, Rome, Naples–to learn true pizza making in its native environment. It turns out that the Greeks, in fact, take credit for its invention, but let’s be honest here–no one travels to the Parthenon to grab a slice of pie.

In his journey, Reinhart describes the similarly divisive regional differences between the Italian passion for pizza (and its cousin, focaccia), from the Northern Italian focaccia col formaggio di Recco to the highly regulated pizza napoletana. In true Italian fashion, there is a government system that regulates standards for many Italian foods and beverages (mostly cheese and wines). The DOC, or Denominazione di Origine Controllata, makes sure any pizza that calls itself napoletana is made according to strict standards–only certain buffalo mozzarellas, crust ingredients, oils, etc.

Having befriended the many pizzaioli of Italy, Reinhart turns his peel back to the U.S. Traveling to New York, New Haven and the Bay Area (where he lauds tiny Pizzetta 211, Berkeley’s Cheese Board Collective and Roxanne’s raw pizza), to L.A.’s California Pizza Kitchen, to Dallas, Providence and Chicago, he ultimately concludes that pizza is as pizza does. It’s pretty much always good, but some good is better than other good. And though he never really does find that perfect pizza (though he claims Bianco’s is pretty darn close), his transcontinental hunt ends with his saying, “You now, sometimes it just comes down to the old truism: I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

The really useful part of the book continues with tips on how to make that perfect (or near-perfect) pizza at home. Reinhart explains how to bake with or without a pizza stone, and also discusses grilling pizza, types of cheeses, tools for the home pizza chef and the all important “windowpane” test for a dough’s consistency.

I tried making the neo-Neapolitan dough used at many East Coast restaurants. It’s supposedly crispier than many other types and uses both a dab of honey and high-gluten flour to give it a denser, crunchier snap.

Borrowing a stand-mixer, I followed the directions exactly and ended up with slightly sticky soft dough (just as it was described). I’ve never done the windowpane test before, and it proved a bit challenging. The idea is to gently stretch the dough until it creates a translucent “window” you can see light through. If the dough breaks or snaps, it’s time for more kneading. It took several additional minutes of kneading to achieve the effect, but the results paid off.

Pulling my pizza from the oven, the crust (though I used an aluminum pan rather than a stone) was crispy and less rubbery than earlier pizza-making fiascos I’d attempted. Oozing and dripping with cheese, my pizza clearly lacked perfection, however. A bit off-center, needing maybe two more minutes in the oven, the basil cut rather than torn, I pondered future improvements.

Screw perfection, I thought. I’m hungry.

Devil in the Details

The foundation of a great pizza is the flour. Great bakers from around the country seek out San Francisco-based Giusto’s Vita-Grain Flour for its quality and robust baking properties. In the North Bay, high-gluten and regular unbleached Giusto’s is available in the bulk bins at Whole Foods. You can also purchase handcrafted specialty flours from Keith Giusto (a renegade Giusto from the same family) in his Penngrove bakery, Full Circle Baking Company, 10151 Main St., Penngrove. 707.794.9445.

–H.I.

From the June 30-July 6, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Photograph by Pablo C. Leites

Rustico: Monti’s interior has a homey, familial feel.

Third Time’s a Charm

The buzz pays off at Monti’s

By Heather Irwin

The buzz over Monti’s Rotisserie and Bar has been palpable for the last month. First there were the rumors. Would this third restaurant to be opened within the last two years by ambitious restaurateurs Mark and Terri Stark be another Willi’s Wine Bar?

Then, as the hubbub settled (yes, it would be a Willi’s-style eatery) and construction began, everyone began asking when it would open. As the paint dried, gaggles of hungry Willi’s fans could be seen–noses pressed against the glass–taking bets on when the doors would officially open.

“I heard they’ll open next week,” one woman said, milling about outside the plastic-sheeted Montgomery Village eatery in late May, sizing up the menu. “Well, I hear they’re doing a soft launch Memorial Day weekend,” another one-upped to the sound of table saws and hammers inside.

I tried to get an answer from a construction worker who’s obviously fielded one too many nosy inquiries from lady mall walkers. He shrugs his shoulders indifferently. “Soon, I guess.”

“Soon” turned out to be the first week of June, and the new rotisserie and bar has been packed from the outset with curious Willi’s devotees and the merely curious. Just after the opening, I was asked no less than four times in
a single day if I’d eaten there. No? Well, we’ve been there, they tell me. Twice.

In a small town, word travels fast and you don’t want to be the last in your circle to go.

Initial reports of the food were generally glowing, slightly tempered with a few opening bungles. The menu, posted outside the doors days before opening, seemed to be a mélange of the original Willi’s small plates and the seafood focus of the Starks’ newer Healdsburg raw bar. The twist here is a large wood-fired rotisserie in the center of the restaurant grilling everything from roast suckling pig to veal.

Vowing to get a sense of the place without feeling overly influenced by my devotion to Monti’s siblings–Willi’s Wine Bar in Santa Rosa and Willi’s Seafood and Raw Bar–I try lunch first. Monti’s bar is a perfect late-afternoon dining spot, boasting a friendly staff who are eager to make menu recommendations. Despite our bartender’s wobbly wine knowledge (a bit surprising considering Willie’s lineage) the wine menu is definitely worth perusing. It’s a characteristically unpretentious collection of many familiar California growers, along with a smattering of international wines, that range from around $5 to $8 a glass. Broken into two pages, the menu lists both whites and reds, with a section on “food-friendly” wines that match well with the rich, savory flavors of the kitchen.

On a hot June afternoon, the Ferrari-Carano Fumé Blanc ($8) was a refreshing choice as I pondered the lunch menu. Broken into seven sections, the menu offers small plates, pasta and pizza, sandwiches, seafood from the raw bar, sides (each $6) and a mix-and-match “tastes” selection of three appetizers for $9. Chef Matt Gordon, who headed up the Healdsburg Willi’s, asserts a heavy Mediterranean influence over the menu, with seafood, goat cheese, olives, dates, tomatoes and lamb as centerpieces.

Since the restaurant’s focus is on the rotisserie, I chose the rotisserie chicken sandwich with onion jam ($8.50) and zucchini fries with goat-cheese ranch ($6). The fries, which varied in shape and size on three visits, were initially thick, finger-sized pieces dipped in a light batter and served with a pungently sour goat-cheese dipping sauce. I had expected much thinner slices–more French-fry-like–and the thicker dinner cuts we received were soggy in the middle. That, however, was just the first of my surprises.

The chicken sandwich, which arrived salad-style, mixed with plenty of mayonnaise on thick slices of wheat bread, was a heartbreakingly disappointing debut. The taste of the chicken was smothered in the heavy mayo and the onion jam was nearly impossible to discern. Was it mixed into the mayonnaise or forgotten altogether? The chicken was also mostly dark meat, which I find overly heavy and off-flavored in chicken salad.

The plate arrived with a side of spicy marinated string beans that were a welcome bit of tangy sourness against the oily mayo coating my mouth. A better choice was the Monti’s Cristo ($8), a take on the traditional Monte Cristo sandwich with Westphalian ham and Gruyère cheese, or the chopped chicken salad ($10).

Focusing, like its sister restaurants, on smaller plates (though there are eight large-portion entrées), Monti’s allows for plenty of sampling–and redemption, if you order up a dud. But economy can be deceiving. Somehow we end up spending even more than we usually would by ordering two or three small plates to share rather than just one apiece. However, having license to poke your fork into someone else’s lunch is a pretty fair tradeoff for the steep tab.

A second visit to the bar for drinks and appetizers was a great chance for sharing plates. People watching reaches its zenith around 7:30pm, when the restaurant is crowded with after-work thirty-somethings. With a good vantage point of the dining room and the bar, we made our way to the raw bar, our friend chatting with the flirty prep cooks pulling together seafood cocktails. The staff was consistently friendly and professional and apologetic for minor snafus inherent in the opening stages of any restaurant.

The tastes menu (three for $9) was a standout winner. We tried the house-made mozzarella, spiced baby beets and duck liver mousse. The small portions were a perfect predinner snack that complemented each other nicely. Crab and rock shrimp fritters ($9) were underwhelming, however, with a too-mushy center despite an abundance of seafood incorporated into the batter. Also off were the crushed Yukon potatoes and caramelized onions, which were grainy and had an odd olive flavor. And once again, we hunted for the onions in vain.

Space, at a premium in Montgomery Village, makes for odd al fresco dining at Monti’s; the two outdoor sections are separated by pedestrian walkways, creating a challenging obstacle course for the wait staff. But supping on steak under the stars can’t be beat on a warm summer night. From the dinner menu, the silky and supple grilled Angus sirloin with crispy onions ($19) became a nearly X-rated experience. We exchanged bites with eye-rolling ecstasy. And finally, we’d found the onions.

The wood-fired pizza, which I’d been told was equally incredible, was the cold shower of the evening. I had opted for the simple Margharita ($10)–tomatoes and torn basil. The basil, while torn, was so anemic as to be an almost ridiculous afterthought; I counted five small pieces. The crust was extraordinarily thin and lacking in flavor, and was unable to stand up to the oil of the cheese. For $10, I expect a serious bit of pizza rather than the paltry slices that arrived only moderately warm.

The boy couldn’t resist a seafood martini ($9), a dish that frankly sounds appalling, but which features a large martini glass filled with fresh crab, calamari, shrimp and scallops mixed in a cocktail sauce. The spiciness of the sauce tends to overwhelm the delicateness of the fresh seafood, but a squirt of aioli and preserved lemon are nice accents despite the ongoing threat of the whole thing tipping into our laps at any moment.

Dessert redeemed any faults. On good advice from our waiter, we tried the dense, flourless chocolate sabayon cake ($6) with vanilla gelato. Nearly all of the desserts arrive in oversized bowls and are plenty for two. The cake was intensely rich and decadent, balanced by the cream and sweet vanilla of the oozy, melty gelato. Sword-fighting with our spoons, we sparred for the last bites, nearly licking the bowl clean.

The convivial atmosphere of the restaurant, done in a sort of rustic farmhouse style, fosters intertable discussions and friendly chatting. We all ooohed and ahhhhed when our neighbors received their enormous dessert platters, asking, “What’s that? What’s that?”

Hey–being part of the buzz is what Monti’s is all about.

Monti’s Rotisserie and Bar, 714 Village Court, Santa Rosa. Lunch and dinner Tuesday-Sunday. Small plates, $6-$10; pizza and entrées, $10-$24; desserts, $6. 707.568.4404.

From the June 23-29, 2004 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.