Family Memories at Di Fara

Rest in peace to a New York City legend.

Di Fara Pizza
1424 Avenue J
Midwood
Open since: 1965 (!)
Price: $
What to order: A slice (or a square)
Jeff's Rating: 9.5/10

This is the greatest pizza in New York.

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Earlier this month, Domenico DeMarco, founder and proprietor of Di Fara Pizza, passed away at the age of 85. May he rest in peace.

My dad grew up in Midwood, Brooklyn in the 1960s. This was New York before the neon billboards in Times Square and luxury malls in Hudson Yards, before 9/11, before the yuppies of 1980s Wall Street and the worst of the crime wave of the 1970s (although the latter had certainly begun), before American Psycho and The Godfather, before CBGB and before Studio 54. Jerry and Elaine had yet to live uptown, Ross and Rachel had yet to go on a break. Dick Wolf had yet to executive produce SVU.

Strip all those layers of culture and history away and eventually you’ll get to 1965 (or ’64, or ’63 depending on the source), when Midwood received its newest small business – Di Fara Pizza, a small, nondescript wood paneled space on the corner of East 15th St. and Avenue J (for you Manhattanites, yes, the avenues do go beyond D). It had only been five years or so since Domenico DeMarco  had moved to Brooklyn from Italy and opened Di Fara, just another neighborhood pizza place, one of hundreds (thousands?) that dot the five boroughs.  

And indeed it was. My father describes the Di Fara of the 1960s as equivalent to the neighborhood spot down the road from my home in Florida: certainly satisfactory, but nothing special. Back in the ‘60s, Di Fara was just a place for a kid like my dad to grab some pizza for 15 cents a slice.

But since that time, something has changed. The word on the street could well have been out much earlier, but from my position in 2022 I can only determine that sometime around the mid to late-1990s, New York started taking notice of “Dom” DeMarco. Reviews started popping up left and right, and since then, there has been no looking back. The Times, the Post, the Daily News, the Village Voice, New York Magazine and the New Yorker all scream in unison the praises of Di Fara. Countless blogs and review sites like this one echo each other, creating a virtuous cycle of pizza love. Anthony Bourdain counted himself among the faithful, and Dave Portnoy, the king of pizza reviews in the modern era, gave Di Fara his highest rating of any restaurant in New York City. A framed print of the restaurant hangs on my kitchen wall. But when my dad wanted to take me to Di Fara 8 or 9 years ago, we knew none of this.

It's June or July, 2013 or 2014. I’m spending a portion of my summer working at a camp in upstate New York, and my dad and I decide to drive my car up to New York from Florida so I have it handy. On the way, we stop in the city and check out my dad’s old neighborhood. Of course, I haven’t moved to Manhattan yet and my dad hasn’t been back to New York for years. But he remembers a pizza spot that used to be where he went as a kid, and he thinks it might be fun to grab some lunch there as we make our way through Brooklyn. We check the map, and it’s still there! Di Fara Pizza, on the corner of East 15th St. and Avenue J. Who would have thought that this random spot from the ‘60s would still be around?

After we park around the block, we make our approach. Unbeknownst to us, the neighborhood gem has become a pizza mecca in the time since my father left Midwood, but it seems to still look the same as when he left. The outer wall, painted a deep red bordering on brown, might remind some observers of the set-pieces in Scorsese’s Mean Streets, although of course the restaurant predates that film as well. Corrugated metal and chicken wire cover one of the side windows. A sign for a local business advertising watch and shoe repair sits affixed to the wall.

A fire escape ladder hangs down over the front of the restaurant, partially obscuring a hand-painted sign that reads “PIZZA – Italian Heros”. If paint ever existed on this side of the building, it has long since faded away, leaving old, unvarnished wood the color and texture of a campsite picnic table. Air conditioners jut out of the windows of apartments one floor above, and in the summer the casual bystander can hear the machines whirring over the ambient noise of the Brooklyn street life and get treated to a few drops of condensation on their pizza if they’re careless or unlucky.

It’s not worth talking about the décor in the interior of the cramped space. The centerpiece of the restaurant, since the day it opened, has always been a person rather than any piece of furniture or artwork. Dom DeMarco stands at the back of the room, barely acknowledging customers as they walk in, hunched over spreading dough or sprinkling basil, almost affixed to the oven that takes up a prominent space behind the counter. At the time of our arrival, he’s still making every single pizza by hand.

As we approach, we realize there’s a line out the door. My dad checks his watch – it’s not really the lunch rush anymore, but the throng of hungry New Yorkers stretches around the corner. He remarks that there never used to be a line, but we take our place and wait. How long can it be?

As we stand around, we get to talking with our fellow queuers and slowly piece together what’s going on here. Some googling fills us in on the particulars, and my dad is perplexed that Di Fara has “gone gourmet.” I don’t know the difference – at this point, I’ve never even heard of the place before. Hunger builds within us. It’s a beautiful summer day, but now the sun has begun to pitch lower in the sky and a bit of a chill spreads in the air as long shadows begin to work their way up Avenue J.

We round the corner and think we’re in the home stretch. Not even close. The line moves at a glacial pace. We gaze on with envy as patrons walk out holding slices and squares drizzled with olive oil and cheese. A man in line next to us tells us about his construction business. Or is it refrigerator sales? At this point I don’t know and don’t care. I stare down at the pavement and day dream of what it would be like to eat a slice of pizza in this lifetime. What’s so great about New York City pizza anyway? Why can’t I just get pizza when I get upstate? Or better yet, why not back in Florida? It can’t be worth it. Clearly I’m thinking nonsense, and though we contemplate aborting our mission and getting a slice somewhere else, we stay put.

After almost two hours of waiting, covering a distance of only about 25 feet, we cross the threshold and smell the fresh pies coming out of the oven. Basil and roasted tomatoes fill the nostrils. We place our order, and we’re told to wait outside! We had reached the promised land only to be thrown back out onto the street, and I daydream of pizza slices in the clouds.

Another 20 minutes and we finally have our pizza in hand: one slice and one square. My dad and I each take a bite. He immediately remarks that it’s “better than he remembers.” I chew slowly and take in the flavors of Dom DeMarco’s cooking, a transcendent combination of bread, dairy, and tomato, just as my father did back in 1965. Sometimes, even the little things can transcend generations.

It’s still the best I’ve ever had.