For half a century, Domenico DeMarco stood at the counter of his Midwood shop making every pizza himself — imported flour, three cheeses, olive oil poured from a copper tin, and fresh basil snipped over each pie with scissors. Since his passing, his children keep the ritual alive, unchanged down to the last gesture.
The square slice, crisp-edged and dense with flavor, is the order most pilgrims come for, though the round holds its own. Expect a wait; nothing here is rushed, and that's the point. Di Fara sits far from any tourist path, which keeps the line honest — everyone standing in it knows exactly why they came.
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