Pizza to Impress the Neighbors

Several months ago, after over a year of staring at an empty house, somebody finally moved in across the street. Our new neighbors are a fun couple, Amber and Eve (I did not make that up), who hail from parts outside of Florida. Now, considering that I’ve only met three people who were verifiably born in the Sunshine State, that’s really no surprise. However, when people (and by people, I mean Eve), who have lived their entire lives in Chicago want to take me out for “good pizza and beer,” I start to panic.
Florida may be known for many things—its weather, its beaches, its dizzying array of outlet malls—but “pizza capital of the country” it is not. Heck, we’re not even the pizza capital of the South (a distinction that, I would wager, belongs to Atlanta). But you know what? I can’t figure it out. I mean, all of these people—pizza-making people—come from places like New York, Boston, Chicago. These are the pizza capitals of the country; places that practically run on pizza. So why is it that when my neighbor wants to know where we can get some good pizza and beer, I’m clueless?
All right, I know. I’m being a bit hard on our metro area. The fact is, there are some pretty great pizza joints around here. When we get delivery, Maria and I call Joey Brooklyn’s downtown and have reveled many times in their yummy, doughy crust and fresh toppings. Central Pizza and Subs, on the “Pasadena side” of Central, puts together a decent pie, too. But these places (Joey Brooklyn’s few tables notwithstanding) are truly delivery-only. There’s no ambiance; there’s no beer.
So, the other night I wanted to take my new neighbor somewhere that could hold its head up against Chicago (okay, well maybe just Atlanta). You see, as a lifetime resident of the Windy City, Eve is under the impression that Chicago does everything better. She’s still in that new-to-Florida stage where northern transplants complain about our lack of seasons, our inconvenient store hours, our “I-don’t-care-if-we-ever-get-there” driving habits. That’s cool. I’ve seen enough of them come in my lifetime to know that this time next year, she’ll be warming her feet by the fireplace in two sweaters, swearing that “these tourists” are just crazy to go to the beach.
But back to the pizza. Our hunt began with the block and a half walk to the Grand Central District’s Roman Gardens Ristorante & Pizzeria. Nice little place; great ambiance. They must have some pretty good food, too, because the dining room was packed. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything about their pizza. On a Saturday night, they had only one server who frantically informed us that we were welcome to sit down, but she seemed to have no idea when we would eat. Not good enough for our hungry crew.
So, we set out in the direction of downtown, vacillating between Fortunato’s in the Janus Landing block, or Dal’Italia on 4th Street and 22nd North. Now, Maria and I have ordered out from Dal’Italia on many occasions, and I’ve eaten at the place at least a couple of times. I can tell you that they do have decent pizzeria ambiance, and the service has always been efficient. Dal’Italia also stocks good beer (imported anything, if you’re wondering what my standards are), many of which are on tap, but honestly, I don’t love the pizza. A lot of folks really dig it, but I find that their toppings are just too, well, big. They don’t dice the onions or peppers, and the result is a slippery, stringy piece of topping that kind of sticks in my throat. Oh, and they use canned mushrooms, which I am especially not fond of.
That in mind, I pushed for Fortunato’s on Central. I have had so many butter-dripping garlic rolls and hearty slices at this deli-style eatery, I was sure we’d find something to appease the hungry neighbors. The inside is all fluorescent lights and cafeteria-line service, but they have breezy table seating on the sidewalk, totally available on an early Saturday evening. Mind you, I have only ever been to Fortunato’s during the lunch hours, so I’ve never really bothered with what kind of beer they offer. A quick check of their icy tub revealed an unfortunate variety of domestics—mostly light, tasteless brews. Strike two.
Appetites mounting, we stood out on the street while I silently cursed the disaster that is St. Petersburg’s pizza-and-beer situation. Of course, if we’d been in Chicago, we’d already be patting our bellies and sipping our Peroni’s at some quaint, 50 year old pizzeria famous for its delectable deep dish. How could I salvage this night? I cast about the street for some sign of redemption, and then I saw it.
Now, CitySearch.com bills this place as a four-star restaurant, which I’m certain is a mistake, but Jojo’s in Citta was voted “Best of the Bay 2007” (though for what, exactly, I don’t know). Here’s what I do know about the place: great service, great outdoor seating, and an exemplary beer selection (no less than three honest-to-God Italian brews!). I’d been to Jojo’s a million years ago, and was not impressed, but clearly the place is under new management. (At my request, one of the waiters even took pains to find out when the Bucs’ game started on Sunday.) They don’t do “full-sized” pizzas, but the personal sizes we ordered—one “custom” with pepperoni, tomato and basil, and one “Special” with just about everything you can throw on a pizza—were more than enough, and incredibly tasty. Also, if you go, do not miss their bruschetta: little toasted breads with garlic heaven on top.
So, in the end I (or rather, Jojo’s) somewhat redeemed St. Petersburg. It’s not every day that you can take a “Chicago girl through-and-through” out for some decent pie in Florida. But, let this be a call to all of you northern transplants: Bring us your pizzerias! I’ve got to impress the neighbors.

First published in The Gabber Newspaper, 12/13/2007