The quest is over. We have finally found a good pizza place near the apartment. A cab driver told us that the best pizza in the neighborhood is called "Sal and Carmines" and is on 102nd and Broadway.
The person behind the counter was definitely Sal or Carmine himself, this man had seen a million pizzas. His hands were clearly arthritic and he used them more like spatulas on the ends of his arms than individual dexterous phalanges.
As the pizza warmed in the oven we noticed that the cash register was an old-fashioned one, tall and graciously awkward with large mechanical keys, I was anxious to see it function. It was enclosed in a plexi glass box on three sides which we guessed was to prevent flour from accumulating on this antiques roadshow piece. Below the register was a wooden cabinet and inside it thin flat file-like drawers that held rows and rows of hopeful rising dough.
Our pizza was ready, we were slowly but steadily served. Math was done in his head to calculate the price, the register didnt blink.
We ate at a small thin stand up counter because the three tables in the back were taken.
Crust was on the thin side, but crunchy, sauce was tasty but not overwhelming and cheese was good.
As we walked out I gave Sal or Carmine a hearty thank you and a smile, he was not moved. The look on his face said "the 8.5 minutes that it takes one person to eat one slice of pizza is enough time for me to see the world... and I have seen it all."
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