Back in my New Hampshire days, I used to yearn for Brooklyn pizza the way a soldier yearns for his sweetheart back home...I realize that's not the kind of statement a man who has a healthy relationship with food would ever say. (And I guess it wasn't quite that dramatic.) But Hanover's pizza pickins were infuriatingly slim. There was a place called Everything But Anchovies which delivered until 2 a.m. and had to clear at least million dollars a year in profit from stoned Dartmouth students. But EBAs was pretty awful, pizza-wise. (However, they did do decent buffalo chicken tenders.) And there was a place called Ramunto's which was slightly better, but not great.
But I always sort of fantasized about how well I'd do (business-wise) if I started a real Brooklyn pizza parlor in Hanover, NH. (I also had the same thought about a bagel place. And my roommate from college, Dave, had the fantasy about a pasta-bar -- which I helped talk him out of.)
In short, I more than identify with Jeff Varasano in his quest to relive the Proustian pizza of his youth.
