Vitaliy S
Google
New York is a city that’ll chew you up and spit you out. But every now and then, if you’re lucky, it tosses you a gift—no frills, no fanfare, just honest-to-God flavor on a paper plate. Enter Lucia, Upper East Side—no gimmicks, no hype, just crust, sauce, and a revelation that makes you question every drunken slice you’ve ever settled for.
I walk in skeptical, as one must be in this city of dollar-slice charlatans and crust crimes against humanity. But then I see it: the marinara slice. Naked but confident. No cheese to hide behind. Just sauce, garlic, and basil, like a Sinatra tune stripped down to a single trumpet and a glass of rye.
The crust—dear God—the crust. It’s blistered in all the right places, fermented within an inch of its life, a delicate balance of chew and crunch. It speaks of time, of patience, of someone giving a damn. And the sauce? Not some sugary ketchup slop. This is red gold—bright, acidic, layered with enough garlic to make your Nonna weep from the grave.
The cheese slice is no slouch either—showered with aged parm and kissed with the kind of char that only comes from a steel deck and a seasoned hand. But the marinara? That’s the sermon. That’s the truth. No mozzarella safety net. Just sauce, crust, basil, and conviction.
Wash it down with a can of Brooklyn Best Peach Iced Tea—“not too sweet,” like a good insult in a Bensonhurst card game—and for a moment, you’re not just fed. You’re right with the world.
Lucia’s isn’t just pizza. It’s a reminder that sometimes, when the city’s noise gets too loud, there’s still a joint out there serving humility, soul, and something damn near sacred—one slice at a time.