In my hometown of Oak Ridge, Tennessee, there is this pizza place called Big Ed's.
Some of my fondest childhood memories are of having dinner there. Of Big Ed himself, in a flour dusted, white T-shirt sitting at the end of the bar. Passing, the eternal wait for the pizza pressed up against the glass watching the dough and sauce get swirled by skilled teenagers and snacking on cold, crumbly pieces of pizza cheese. The place was loud, there was always a line and the pizza was blistering hot when it arrived at the table. Little has changed. It is now Ed's son at the bar, but the jukebox still takes quarters and the line on a Friday night, still snakes out the door toward the high school football field.
When I am back in Tennessee, pizza at Big Ed's is usually one of the first meals we have and always one one of the last. I have been known to travel across oceans with foiled wrapped pieces of pepperoni.
On Friday nights, Da Remo even has a line that snakes out toward the piazza.
Piazza Santa Maria della Liberatrice 44