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argument here, however, doesn’t have to do with where, but who. Some stories credit Uno’s founder, a Texan named Ike Sewell. Others say the genius in question was Richard Novaretti, known as Ric Riccardo, who owned the restaurant Riccardo’s and was also Sewell’s partner. Still others point to Adolpho “Rudy” Malnati Sr., Riccardo’s former bartender who became a longtime Uno’s employee. One thing’s for sure. Pizzeria Uno, like Lombardi’s in New York, was a wellspring of pizza royalty. Lou Malnati, Rudy’s son, left Uno in 1971 to start his eponymous pizzeria empire in the North Chicago suburb of Lincolnwood. Rudy’s other son, Rudy Jr., founded the Pizano’s chain. And Uno’s one-time cook, Alice Mae Redmond, went on to work at Gino’s East, which opened in 1966. Each pizzeria does things a little differently, but the general format is largely the same. The process begins with a deep, round metal pan coated with olive oil, into which the dough, made of white and semolina flour, is pressed and shaped until it covers the bottom of the pan and creeps up the sides. The dough is then baked, resulting in a sturdy starch bowl that will soon hold the hefty remaining ingre- dients. The crust also comes out a distinct bright yellow. (Some say the color is due to the olive oil, others because of dye.) The filling is introduced in a particular order. First comes mozzarella cheese, sometimes as slices, sometimes grated; then any meats or vegeta- bles that have been ordered; and, finally, it’s topped with a layer of raw crushed tomatoes. The latter will be cooked through during the mélange’s long stay in the oven. There are other quirks to the style. Whereas pepperoni prevails as the most popular meat topping in the rest of the United States, sausage is king in Chicago. And the meat is sometimes applied in the form of a single sausage patty, covering the entire circumference of the pie. Other times, it is lump sausage that is pressed into a layer. The finished pie is brought out via a unique piece of hardware, a pliers-like item called a pan gripper, making the arrival of a pie at your table seem a bit like a visit from the local blacksmith. Not every joint is part of a chain. There are independent practi- tioners as well. When I was at Northwestern, in Evanston there was Dave’s Italian Kitchen, a personal favorite of mine; and Carmen’s Pizza, which served a variation of deep-dish called stuffed pizza, in which the cheese sits between two layers of crust, the top layer of which is covered with sauce. Giordano’s is the most famous practi- tioner of the stuffed style. Both Dave’s and Carmen’s have now, sadly, vanished. (Dave’s technically exists, after two moves, but is a shadow of its former self, and the pizza is just not the same.) Unlike New York pizza, it is permissible to eat deep-dish pizza with a fork and knife. Really, it’s impossible to manage the task otherwise. The silverware makes a deep-dish experience seem more like a meal than a thin-crust pie. (So, for that matter, does the wait.) There’s no grab-and-go in the Chicago pizza universe, no foldable slice for the street. You’ve got to commit, and so does your party — to the evening, to the time, to the meal. It’s an investment of time, just as it is to the folks in the kitchen. And there’s always some left to take home. Which is good, for Chicago pizza tastes great later on, reheated as a late-night or next-day snack. In that single respect, it shares a brotherhood with New York pizza.

Alesi’s in Lafayette by Justin nystrom

When Mariano Alesi, Jr., opened his restaurant in Lafayette in 1957, local diners didn’t know what to make of this strange thing on the menu called “pizza.” Bread topped with cheese, tomato sauce, onions and olives certainly didn’t fit their concept of pie. Alesi eventually overcame their skepticism, and over 60 years later he’s remembered as the man who introduced pizza to the city. Unlike most Sicilian Americans living in Louisiana, the Alesi family did not arrive through the port of New Orleans. When blight destroyed the vineyards surrounding the Sicilian coastal town of Alcamo, it drove over 30,000 people from the region. Among them was Alesi’s father, Mariano, Sr., who passed through Ellis Island in 1912 and made his way to Detroit, where he found work in an automobile factory. Here, Mariano, Jr., was born in 1920. Like his father, young Alesi got a job at the auto plant, but enlisted soon after the start of World War II, hoping his Italian language would get him sent to Italy. Uncle Sam had other ideas, however, and stationed Mariano in Lafayette, where he met Bertha Mouton, his future wife. After a stint in San Diego, the young couple returned to Mouton’s hometown with their four sons and made the fateful decision to open a pizzeria. The idea wasn’t entirely out of the blue. In 1953, Alesi’s uncle, Angelo Nazione, himself a young war vet just four years older than his nephew, had opened Luigi’s Original Pizza in the Detroit suburb of Harrison Township, and it was from him that Mariano learned the business. Nazione had traveled to Naples as a teenager in the 1930s, and played a role in Detroit’s develop- ment of its own unique pizza style after World War II, one defined by Sicilian tradition, featuring a thick crust and baked in a rectan- gular pizza pan. Luigi’s remains in business today and, in 2009, noted food writer Alan Richman declared their Gourmet Veggie Pizza number 13 on his list of the best 25 pizzas in America. Despite its Motor City origins, however, the pizza served at Alesi’s today is of the popular hand-tossed variety. And while the menu here may emphasize the family’s Sicilian heritage, their story is unmistakably American.

TOP IT WHILE IT’S HOT Our butchers craft our fresh Italian sausage with pure ground pork, onions, peppers, and anise seed or fennel. It’s one of several kinds of fresh sausage made in house at Rouses.

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