Review: Di Fara Frozen Pepperoni Pizza

Di Fara is one of those names that carries the kind of weight that made pizza pilgrims stand in the Brooklyn heat for two hours while Dom DeMarco (R.I.P.) snipped basil over a pie that costs as much as a Broadway ticket. The original Pizza Quixote review from 2011 captured that magic: the cramped shop on Avenue J, the ritual, the inefficiency, the oil, the basil, the sense that you were witnessing something closer to performance art than lunch. That aura is difficult to freeze, box, and ship. But Di Fara has tried.

The frozen Di Fara pie is an 11‑inch round, modest in calories but not in sodium (more on that later). The crust is the first surprise, with a genuinely lovely crumb and texture, airy and well‑developed. Mine was a little dry, likely the result of too long a stay in the freezer, but the underlying dough quality still came through. It’s leagues better than the cardboard‑adjacent crusts that dominate the freezer aisle.

Out of the box, still frozen, before baking

The sauce is the star. Deep tomato flavor, concentrated and bright, reminiscent of the San Marzano–forward approach Dom's family uses in Midwood (and, presumably, other brick and mortar locations that have opened in recent years). It doesn’t quite hit the same fresh‑and‑canned hybrid complexity that Scott Wiener has described in his Di Fara tours, but it’s closer than you’d expect from something that spent months in cryogenic stasis.

Fresh out of my oven

Pepperoni lovers will appreciate the thick, cupped slices — hearty, meaty, and unapologetically salty. This is a high‑sodium pizza, no question, but the payoff is big flavor. The cheese blend (mozzarella plus Parmesan) brings a ton of umami in its savory punch. It’s a bold and satisfying frozen pizza.

But is it Di Fara? Not really. And that’s OK.

The in‑store pie was defined by Dom’s hands, the olive‑oil deluge, the fresh basil snipped with shears, the blistered crust that somehow stays soft in the center. Adam Kuban has written for years about how the Di Fara experience is inseparable from Dom himself — the slowness, the chaos, the sense that you’re eating something ephemeral and unrepeatable. The frozen version can’t replicate that any more than a postcard can replicate a vacation.

Compared to other “prestige frozen pizzas,” though, Di Fara holds its own. Roberta’s frozen pies — reviewed here in 2018 — set the modern standard: thin, crisp, flavorful, and surprisingly faithful to the Bushwick original. Roberta’s Baby Sinclair was described as “the best frozen pizza I’ve had,” with a crisp wafer‑thin crust and a cheese‑driven flavor profile. Di Fara’s frozen pie isn’t quite as cohesive or as texturally dialed‑in as Roberta’s, but it delivers a richer tomato presence and a more indulgent pepperoni experience.

Bottom line: This is a great frozen pizza but not automatically the best. And it’s not particularly reminiscent of the Midwood shop. What it does capture is the intensity of flavor that defines Di Fara: the deep tomato, the salty richness, the umami‑heavy cheese. It’s a worthy upgrade from the usual freezer fare and a fun way to bring a little Brooklyn legend into your kitchen, even if Dom’s family and those basil shears remain thousands of miles away.

Dom in 2009

If you go in expecting the Di Fara of Avenue J, you’ll be disappointed. If you go in expecting one of the best frozen pizzas on the market, you’ll be delighted. And maybe that’s the right way to honor a legend — not by trying to freeze perfection, but by giving us a taste of what makes it special.

Review: Fire & Hops Pizza — Richmond, VA

Fire & Hops lives comfortably in that hipster‑dense stretch of Richmond's Museum District, a delightful zone on a warm spring day except for the difficulty in finding a parking spot. The space used to be Stuzzi, and the new team (veterans of Sergio’s, Pietro’s, and Arianna’s) has kept the neighborhood‑joint DNA while ditching the hackneyed wood‑fire drama. 

Their dome oven has a rotating floor, a fun bit of pizza‑nerd spectacle that also keeps the pies from developing that one‑side‑burned, one‑side‑pale personality disorder (although we did get some deep char on ours, not a problem for a Neapolitan style).

The vibe is genuinely happy, staff and patrons alike. Service is upbeat without being performative, and the room has that “we’re new, but we already feel like your spot” energy. It’s the kind of place where you order a second beer because the first one went down too easily.

Before the pizza, a quick detour: the Strawberry Kale Salad. The kale is impressively tender and fresh — not the leathery afterthought some places pass off — and the goat cheese adds the right creamy tang. But the dressing is shy. Not absent, just timid. A little more would’ve turned a good salad into a great one.

Beer matters here, and they treat it that way. The craft selection is thoughtful without being pretentious, and it actually earns the “Hops” half of the name. Thoughtfully, there is a nice cider on the menu too.

Drunken Grandma on the gluten-free crust

On to the pies. Fire & Hops calls these Neapolitan, and structurally they are: thin, chewy, nicely blistered, and not soggy. But they’re not chasing the Pizza Bones / Pupatella fermentation‑flex aesthetic. These are competently executed, neighborhood‑friendly Neapolitan crusts, not science projects.

Superb crisping under the GF crust

We chose the gluten‑free crust for our Drunk Grandma pie, and it was beyond cromulent, with more spring than its thin profile suggested, and better than the usual GF cardboard simulacrum. Not a revelation, but absolutely respectable. This pie had the most umami of the selections we had for our party of five pizza eaters.

The Margherita

The sauce on the Drunk Grandma is a standout. It’s basically vodka sauce with an outsized personality — richer, more flavorful, and more assertive than the pale pink stuff many places phone in. On the Margherita, the bright red sauce really pops, though the mozzarella dollops could’ve used another moment in the oven to fully settle.

The Fig & Pig

The Fig & Pig has a great flavor concept with fig jam, gorgonzola, and pork as well as a sublime crust texture. But the balsamic drizzle comes in a bit too hot and overwhelms the subtler elements. Still tasty, still worth ordering, but it’s a pie that would benefit from a lighter hand.

The Prosciutto & Arugula

The Prosciutto & Arugula is the star of the lineup. Perfect balance: peppery greens, salty prosciutto, shaved cheese on top, nothing fighting for dominance. It’s the one that most makes you think, “Yeah, I’d come back for this.”

Underside of the regular crust

At about $17 for an 11‑inch pie (plus $3 for gluten‑free), pricing is right in line with Richmond’s modern pizza economy. Two salads, three adult beverages, four pizzas came to $135 before tip.

Open and airy interior

Fire & Hops isn’t trying to dethrone the city’s artisanal heavyweights. It’s not chasing hype or fermentation glory. It’s aiming for consistency, comfort, and a neighborhood identity — and it hits those marks cleanly. Good service, good energy, good beer, and pizza that’s well‑executed. Not a pilgrimage spot, but absolutely the kind of place you’d be thrilled to have within walking distance.

Review: Pizza Rock - Las Vegas, NV

Las Vegas has quietly become one of America’s most interesting pizza cities, and much of that reputation traces back to Tony Gemignani. The world‑champion pizzaiolo opened Pizza Rock in Downtown Las Vegas in 2013, bringing with him a battery of ovens—gas, electric, wood, and even a 900‑degree Marra Forni—to showcase multiple regional styles under one roof. It’s an ambitious concept, and on paper, it should be a pilgrimage site for pizza obsessives.

The "Sausage and Stout" pizza

Two of us visited in January 2026, eager to see how the Vegas flagship holds up in a city now crowded with strong competitors like Good Pie, Evel Pie, and Metro Pizza. The space is huge and theatrically dark, more sports bar than pizzeria, but service was fast and friendly. 

We started with a $15 cocktail and a $9 draft beer—both well made—and split the small house salad. Mixed greens, cherry tomatoes, red onion, mozzarella, croutons, and balsamic vinaigrette: simple, fresh, and solid.

The Neapolitan Marinara

Pizza Rock’s menu is famously sprawling, but we focused on two pies that represent opposite ends of their repertoire. First up was the Marinara Neapolitan ($16.25). It arrived with a puffy, well‑fermented cornicione and textbook leopard spotting. The sauce was a deep, vivid red, and the basil added a clean herbal lift. 

Nicely cooked but soggy center

This was an excellent pizza—balanced, properly baked, and satisfying. Still, I found myself wishing we’d ordered the Margherita, the pie that won Tony his world championship and the one that best expresses his Neapolitan craft.

Our second pizza was the Sausage & Stout ($28.50), limited to just 23 per day. This one uses a honey‑malted dough made with stout beer and bakes up into a medium‑thick, Grandma‑adjacent base. The toppings—fresh mozzarella, hot honey sausage, caramelized onions, fontina, green onions, crushed red pepper, beer salt, and a sweet stout reduction—create a bold, layered flavor profile. It’s a fun, creative pie, and it delivered exactly what it promised: richness, sweetness, heat, and a sturdy crust to hold it all.

Both pizzas were very good, but neither reached the transcendent level I’ve experienced when the creator is on the scene, such as at DiFara when Dom was there, or at the Pizza Palooza where several celebrity pizzamakers showed off their best. 

Underside of the Sausage & Stout pie

That’s not a knock on the recipes or ingredients—they’re top‑tier. But Pizza Rock is a high‑volume Vegas operation, and when the master pizzaiolo isn’t in the kitchen, execution can drift just a bit. The crusts were well made, the flavors were strong, but the magic wasn’t quite there.

large dark interior space

Still, Pizza Rock remains one of the most reliable all‑around pizzerias in Las Vegas. It’s a great first‑night stop, especially if you’re with a group or want to sample multiple styles in one place. But if you’re chasing the city’s most soulful or chef‑driven pies, you’ll find more personality and tighter execution at Good Pie in the Arts District, the surprisingly excellent slices at Evel Pie, or the old‑school comfort of  Metro Pizza.

Pizza Rock delivered two very fine pizzas, a pleasant meal, and a reminder that even in a city of neon excess, great pizza still comes down to the hands that make it.