It's funny that not that long ago some guys opened a pizza place with an
alleged hippie-60's-70's theme. If they really wanted to bring back that era AND enjoy excellent pizza, why didn't they just go to Burt's? I knew what kind of a trip I was in for when I saw these, which far more than any reproduction of psychedelia or Austin Powers knockoff says the real 70s to me:
The only question is, who stole W.C. Fields? From there I could almost have guessed that reproduction posters for Frankenstein and King Kong (printed by Portal Publications, available at Pier 1s everywhere c. 1972) would be found inside, just as they were in my bedroom.
So, what more is there to say about Burt's. Terrific handmade pan pizza, high quality ingredients and no industrial shortcuts, recognizably the progeny of the Uno/Malnati's school, recognizably the progenitor of Pequod's and Gulliver's, both owned by Burt at some point. Subtler than Pequod's is now, they take one note in Burt's symphony (the burnt-edge crust) and blast it out, which being a fan of burnt things, I like too. It is all good, or in Burt's case, very good.
But we're not here for pizza alone. As the only customers on a late Wednesday night, G Wiv and I had the full undivided attention of Burt and his wife Sharon, and, well, you could open another restaurant with the same recipe but you're not going to be able to open it in Burt's living room with Burt and Sharon for company. That part's unique and what makes finding Burt's Place, on its hidden little street near the upper tributary of Lincoln Avenue, a borderline surreal, totally delightful experience.
No, Burt is not seven feet tall, he was standing on a chair to show us a handmade ferris wheel toy he found somewhere.