![]() Bianco himself smoked the cheese in the oven each morning over pecan wood. 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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