A Brief, Torrid Love Affair with a Cheese Babka

It was only a few weeks ago when I was sitting with my friends James and Jeremy eating a Polish lunch at Lomzynianka on Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint. Typically, I find Polish food to be among the most sensual of Eastern European cuisines, a point I tried to convey to my friends, but I was distracted by our gorgeous Polish waitress. I did clear my mind of evil thoughts for long enough to eat my rich, white borscht, flecked with bits of smokey kielbasa.

Even when our sampler platters arrived, an assortment of pierogies, kielbasa, mashed potatoes, bigos and stuffed derma, I could hardly focus on the food as I watched another beautiful woman changing in front of her open apartment window across the street. I should probably start looking for apartments in Greenpoint.

Cheese pierogi was the best bite on the plate-- a prelude of what was to come.

Lots of delicious slaws.

Di Fara Pizza, Paulie Gee's and The Cult of Personality

How do I even approach a post on Di Fara Pizza?

Invariably, it's discussed from one of two perspectives: the virgin and the veteran. These tropes are as stale as it gets (just look on Yelp).

The virgins write as if entering a sacred (likely Catholic) shrine for the first time (I think they picture themselves in an Indiana Jones movie). Photographs are a constant, but everyone still seems to show an incongruous reverence normally reserved for a pope, head of state or Lady Gaga. After an already eternal wait, they meekly place their order, waiting in line for their baptism in pizza grease and holy extra virgin olive oil. Finally, once the pizza itself has become a mere formality, they depart slightly heavier, but spiritually reborn (or something like that).

The Man. The Myth. The Legend.

Veterans, on the other hand, burnish their credibility by claiming to have been among the first to try Di Fara. (While Midwood locals reminisce at how Di Fara used to be before the crowds.) They worship at the alter of Pope Dom DeMarco, and write about Di Fara in tones of a wise man leading a rapturous flock to a holy Midwood pilgrimage, spreading salvation to those poor souls who's heathen lips have never touched the most holy blessed pizza in existence.

If my comments show anything, it's that I'm sorely lacking in whimsy or the ability to accept anything with more than jaded cynicism (being only 26, this deeply disturbs me). More importantly, I've overused the Catholic imagery and relied too much on sarcasm. No one wants to sound like this guy (which I probably did after my first draft).

Still, I'm also compelled to admit that, until recently, I too was a Di Fara virgin.