2008 Woodie Awards
Taste of the Town
Annmarie Granstrand
Issue date: 10/2/08 Section: Arts & Entertainment
Bob and Timmy's Grilled Pizza
32 Spruce Street
(401) 453-2221
Pizza is a regional art form. In southern California, it's covered in fresh vegetables and new-age philosophy. On the northwest coast, they cover tough, wheat dough with all kinds of cheeses at once. In Chicago it's all about the deep-dish. Apparently in our immediate area, pizza's to be closely accompanied with vats of blue cheese dressing. At home in the tri-state area, it's Italian-American perfection. I won't continue on a sermon describing the healing powers of Sam's Pizza in Brooklyn or Westfield's Buona Pizza but I'd just like to preface with the fact that I've eaten more than a few slices in my twenty-one years of unwarranted, pretentious food critiquing.
This past weekend was a rough one for the people of New York. I'm not talking about the people of Wall Street or wherever the anti-Bloomberg folks live. I'm talking about the people of the 7 train, the people of Flushing Meadows, the people of Shea. Being in a relationship with the Mets is, I hope, the most abusive relationship of my life. Thankfully, I have a great support system of friends who refused to let me molt into the Ms. Havisham of broken post-season dreams. And because one specifically couldn't stand to listen to me mumble about how I was ready to name my firstborn after Endy Chavez anymore, she decided we needed to grab a slice of home.
A shadow of my former self, I was somewhat comforted at the prospect of sharing a bit of home with someone who hails from the Garden State as well. Arm-in-arm, or more like arm-around-me-to-prevent-more-empathetic-tears-for-Beltran, we entered Bob and Timmy's Grilled Pizza. Located on a quiet street in the backyard of Federal Hill, the pizzeria had only a handful of tables and an intimate dining area. Families and friends were splitting pies on tables crowded with large glasses of beer and small red tea candles. It was just the soothing atmosphere you'd want on such a tumultuous Sunday.
32 Spruce Street
(401) 453-2221
Pizza is a regional art form. In southern California, it's covered in fresh vegetables and new-age philosophy. On the northwest coast, they cover tough, wheat dough with all kinds of cheeses at once. In Chicago it's all about the deep-dish. Apparently in our immediate area, pizza's to be closely accompanied with vats of blue cheese dressing. At home in the tri-state area, it's Italian-American perfection. I won't continue on a sermon describing the healing powers of Sam's Pizza in Brooklyn or Westfield's Buona Pizza but I'd just like to preface with the fact that I've eaten more than a few slices in my twenty-one years of unwarranted, pretentious food critiquing.
This past weekend was a rough one for the people of New York. I'm not talking about the people of Wall Street or wherever the anti-Bloomberg folks live. I'm talking about the people of the 7 train, the people of Flushing Meadows, the people of Shea. Being in a relationship with the Mets is, I hope, the most abusive relationship of my life. Thankfully, I have a great support system of friends who refused to let me molt into the Ms. Havisham of broken post-season dreams. And because one specifically couldn't stand to listen to me mumble about how I was ready to name my firstborn after Endy Chavez anymore, she decided we needed to grab a slice of home.
A shadow of my former self, I was somewhat comforted at the prospect of sharing a bit of home with someone who hails from the Garden State as well. Arm-in-arm, or more like arm-around-me-to-prevent-more-empathetic-tears-for-Beltran, we entered Bob and Timmy's Grilled Pizza. Located on a quiet street in the backyard of Federal Hill, the pizzeria had only a handful of tables and an intimate dining area. Families and friends were splitting pies on tables crowded with large glasses of beer and small red tea candles. It was just the soothing atmosphere you'd want on such a tumultuous Sunday.
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