You're talkin' like hot, Hot Tomatoes

I am something of a pizza snob. I was spoiled with the best, growing up in Brooklyn and Staten Island. My favorite pizzerias were always right around the corner from me. The smell of rice balls the size of babies’ heads and garlic knots bigger than my fists always greeted me upon opening the door. The pizza crust was always the perfect balance of crunchy and chewy. You could practically hear the sauce bubbling and brewing in the kitchen and the cheese melting in the brick oven. Yes, I am just salivating at the thought.

Ever since leaving the safe harbor of my home, I have been searching for a suitable replacement. Pizza that fails to meet my standards of excellence does not have the privilege of meeting my tastebuds much less my stomach. The only time I was granted such an improbable possibility was my week-long stay in Italy. Needless to say, I have not eaten a lot of pizza since moving farther than four hours from my favorite pizzerias. And I have not even come close to finding a pizza I can stomach up here in Boston—I do not understand why Upper Crust is such a big deal up here. It’s just not that good.

Until I found Hot Tomatoes in the North End. If it wasn’t a Lenten Friday, I probably would never have even glanced at this place. But it was such a day and the picture of their “forget-me-knots” on their website looked too good to pass it up. So my girlfriends and I wondered the North End until we found the little side street that Hot Tomatoes calls home.

In many ways, it fit my idea of a classic pizzeria: a tiny hole-in-the-wall, neighborhood joint. Specials were hand-written on a chalkboard. There were tables—complete with checkerboard tablecloths—and seats enough for five small parties and only one person taking orders. A party of five—dominated by three children under the age of 10—held court in one corner of the dining room when we walked in the door; even though they were done eating. The toddler left more of her dinner on her high chair, the table and the floor—individually—than in her stomach or, quite surprisingly, on her clothes. The two adults were too enamored with the forget-me-nots to notice. A couple took over a table clearly meant for six people even though a table for two was available. Every other table was filled. So my three friends and I stood in the middle aisle by the door waiting for the children to get their things together and, yes, we were often in the way of people picking up their phoned in orders. So we stood for nearly twenty minutes. If the food wasn’t absolutely delicious, I was ready to rampage.

One major way it didn’t fit my ideal: No rice balls.

Luckily, the food we were served was amazing (and affordable!). FIrst course: garlic forget-me-knots and creamy tomato soup. Entree: "The Whitey" (pizza). Dessert: more garlic forget-me-knots.

The garlic “forget-me-knots” tasted better than they looked in the pictures and we ended up with four orders before the night was through. A perfectly crispy outer layer covered with just the right amount of garlic and olive oil surrounded a chewy, soul-satisfying inside; so fresh from the oven that steam cascaded from our mouths with each first bite. The creamy tomato soup danced delightfully on my taste buds when paired with the knots. This was especially surprising because I don’t normally like tomato soup; even as a condiment.

Since none of us could eat meat—being good Catholics and all—we decided to split “The Whitey:” a white pie with a perfect ratio of handmade ricotta to mozzarella finished with olive oil, spinach and fresh herbs. The crust was thin and crispy with just the right amount of char. The combined toppings were, as a result of respectful handling, creamy and light. As long as pizzerias are inspired by Whitey Bulger to make delicious pizzas, I’m content with his continued elusion of the FBI.