The Lucali Pizza Line

My countdown back to work has started and to no surprise at all, I wish I had more time. Not because I squandered this break of mine, I just spent most of it riddled with anxiety over how I’d make money to afford sparkly things and my many wants of the week. Once I got over the horror of being unemployed, I had a thought that a very specific kind of New Yorker has when they suddenly find themselves with hours and hours to spend however they want: I finally have time to stand in line for Lucali Pizza.

On an overcast March afternoon at 1pm, I took an Uber over to Carroll Gardens and took my place as the first person in line for New York’s favorite hard-to-get slice. I stood there awkwardly for thirty minutes, smiling at knowing strangers, petting dogs whose eyes met mine, pacing back and forth around no more than a 3x3 ft. space, just in case someone else showed up and tried to dethrone my top spot. 

I’ve never claimed to not care what people think. I always care about what people think and in this moment, I was very aware of the optics of me standing alone in a not-yet-existent line. Of course it was all in my head but I could see and feel the second-hand embarrassment from passers by. 

After thirty minutes, I had a line buddy — a younger guy from Portland, Oregon. He hopped out of a cab with a suitcase, fresh off the plane and prepared for the camp out. Shortly after, we met a professional line-place-holder (that’s a thing) — a man who makes $35 per hour to stand in lines for anyone who can’t be bothered or doesn’t have the luxury of doing nothing at 1pm in the afternoon on a weekday. This guy was the expert — he coached us through how the line works, which wine to bring and what to order.

Following his arrival, there was a sweet couple from Arizona — they were in town to visit their daughter at Columbia University. Then there was a cool guy my age who showed up more prepared than the rest of us with what looked like a full picnic and a book. He was wearing his dad’s old air force bomber jacket, a worn pair of chucks and he looked like someone his friends rely on for Spotify playlists. After that, there was the guy who geniusly brought a pack of Whiteclaws for the foodie purgatory and that was the last of the folks I’d be able to actually see before the line wrapped around the corner. Together, we were all a modern Breakfast Club of fast-friends with a deep appreciation for food. It’s near impossible to line up shoulder to shoulder with strangers and not make friends and if you’re not the kind of person who makes friends in line for pizza, I don’t think we’d get along.

I’m a nosy little lady and can’t help but eavesdrop. Two men a few spots down the line from me made small talk about how they became part of this fan club.

“How’d you find out about this place?”

“Netflix?”

“Yeah, Netflix. What about you?”

“Netflix.” 

How did I find out about it — I had a fling during the pandemic and he loved this pizza and when things didn’t work out between us, I needed this pizza. Just to understand what I’d been missing. Was it out of spite to be able to say I had something he didn’t? Absolutely, but I had no idea I was in for such a spiritual endeavor. 

At this stage of the pandemic, the only option for Lucali’s was to call to get a time-slot for carryout. Ubers and taxis were still barely back in business and I had a fun new hobby of choosing a far-away prize and walking towards it with a good audio book in my ear. That day, I called exactly 200 times until I got through to claim my pick-up window and started walking from Williamsburg. I starved myself all afternoon and then around 4pm, my tired feet and I made it to the striped awning. I got the goods — that pizza was a shiny trophy in the midst of a lot of suck. Wearing a sundress that could be a tent, or in this case, a table cloth, I sat on the curb just a few yards away from the door and proceeded to inhale the entire pizza in one sitting. It’s hard to say if it was because we were in the middle of a global pandemic and I was living alone, relying on my own barely passable home cooking but those first bites of margherita pie made me emotional. It was that good. 

Back to my present day stakeout — After an hour or so, the conversation died down and people picked up their books or stared at their phones — after all, this is how the world waits. I could no longer see the end of the line and I didn’t feel so embarrassed about my decision to show up when I did. Here and there, I’d get a tap on the shoulder and take out one of my airpods to participate in any new chatter that started to bubble up. We were all in this together, swapping meal memories, exchanging travel stories and sharing phone chargers. If anyone needed to pee, their spot was safe — no questions asked. Although, if any suckers casually showed up after 3pm to join the line, boy, did we judge. The wait was part of the badge of honor.

I started to imagine what it would be like to live on Henry street. Would David and I walk our dog down the street and line up for pizza occasionally? And the rest of the time, would we just walk by the line and smile at it? Knowing everyone in that line is in for something special. Sitting on Henry Street for three hours is like watching a living ad for what Brooklyn feels like. Move to Henry Street, get to know the neighbors, buy a house plant to hang in the window, enjoy the soda parlor around the corner, make babies and name them after your favorite streets. Surely, someone on this block has named their children Carroll and Henry and I hope they’ve all stood in this pizza line as a family at least once or twice.

A few minutes after 4pm, the door opened, the sandwich board menu came out and it was my turn to ask for a reservation time. The whole thing was a bit anticlimactic after waiting through what could be a low-budget indie film script: The Lucali pizza line.

I blurted out, “7PM please!”
“Be on time and check in when ya get here. Thank you.” 

That was that and then I walked away, giving a little half-wave to my new friends. 

I came back home to put on my jeans with the extra room, David made me a victory negroni and we were out the door to head to dinner an hour later. We arrived and looked around the room, in case we could spot anyone famous. Our pie came out first and then a calzone that I’d gladly wait all day for again. David and I have spent the last two years dining at New York’s Michelin rated restaurants that cost half our monthly rent and this $60 meal was easily one of our most memorable. David said it best when I asked him if it all lived up to the hype, “They fuckin’ nailed it on the head.”

Looking around the restaurant, I saw a few of the faces I was waiting in line next to. We exchanged half smiles and that right there is one of my favorite things about New York — perfect interactions can be left alone to be what they are without anything further and then they’re just a nice memory that makes you half smile and think, dammit, I love this city, the places that make it special and the people who call it home for a long weekend or a lifetime. Dining at Lucali feels like you’re a guest in someone’s home. I always wanted to write about food and I may have just accidentally written my first restaurant review. May you play hooky and stand in that pizza line — the one on Henry Street with the beautiful awning. Like the many texts I’ve sent to friends in the last week, “It’s so worth it.” And if you can’t get this emotional about food, you’re not eating right.