![]() The crust had yeasty depth, like just-baked bread you can’t help but stuff in your mouth in chunks even as it burns your fingers. I ordered the Wiseguy, topped with smoked mozzarella, slices of fennel sausage, and bronzed rings of roasted onions. This was the first time I’d had this combination, and I’ve judged its balance of licorice, citrus, and peppery flavors against all others since. ![]() She found me a seat at the short bar, and I began with a salad of shaved fennel with rounds of oranges and olive oil. Her pixie slightness and straight blond hair evoked Ladies of the Canyon-era Joni Mitchell. Susan Pool, for many years Bianco’s business partner, ran the floor. His massive arms and physical brawn suggested a street fighter, but his calm, enigmatic demeanor more closely resembled Yoda. Chris Bianco stood behind the counter wielding a peel with a long handle. To reach the restaurant, I walked past an herb and vitamin store, and its weird smell - pharmacy mixed with dried oregano - gave way to the smoky wafts of the pizzeria’s wood-burning oven. Pizzeria Bianco crouched in the corner of an open air shopping center called Town & Country on 20th Street and Camelback Road. I could afford dinner there, though I wondered what exactly could make a pizzeria in the Southwest worthy of so much praise. For Arizona, the survey’s write-in quotes rhapsodized about the wonders of a two-year-old pizza restaurant run by a Bronx transplant. At a local bookstore, I flipped through one of the oblong Zagat guides detailing America’s top restaurants. My serious interest in food was budding but I was also broke. In 1996 I was a couple of years out of college, kicking around the country with a musician friend. Pizzeria Bianco and I go back nearly 20 years.
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