On a Sunday afternoon, I found myself standing around Carroll Gardens, biding my time for the mere possibility of a table at one of the area's most famous restaurants. And I wasn't the only one—a quick count ahead of me yielded around 60 heads. But I steeled myself—this was just part of the waiting game that is dining at Lucali.
Edging on 20 years of service from “accidental pizzalo” Mark Iacono, Lucali is but a simple operation. There are only two menu items on offer, one pizza and one calzone, and sometimes a special. Inside only holds 30 seats. In theory, the restaurant also keeps it simple when it comes to getting a table, as Lucali doesn't subscribe to reservation platforms. However, Iacano's signature pies have reached legendary status in the neighborhood—Beyoncé and Jay-Z have been known to frequent the restaurant—causing lines every day of the week, minus Tuesdays when they are closed. Which is how I found myself outside the restaurant hours before it was open, counting heads and my chances.
And yet, I had a bit of assurance that I would still get a table. Following a quick study of Reddit and a handful of TikToks, I planned my arrival around 3:30pm on Sunday, knowing that the books open at 4pm with the doors officially opening around 5pm. I admit, as I stared at the crowd in front of me, some of whom brought chairs and or parked it on blankets on the sidewalk, I felt like I should’ve arrived a tick earlier. But I had already primed myself and the friends that I invited that I’d be going for the last table of the night.
Around 3:50pm, a dark-haired woman briskly walked up to the restaurant and unlocked the front door, her presence causing a hush over the crowd. She reappeared seconds later, dragging a few tables out to the sidewalk, helped by those standing by. She soon took a seat, plopping a thick black notebook in front of her, and we were off to the races. Eager diners at the front were rewarded with primetime eating hours of their choosing, patting themselves on the back for arriving before the 2 o’clock hour. As I moved down the line out of earshot, I heard the murmurs of those ahead of me reporting in real time: “Everything before 7pm is taken” or “They can only do 8pm outside.”
Finally, I made it up to the table, eyeing the scribble of names and numbers that nearly covered the once blank page. After a quick greeting, I asked for the last table of the night. She said she could do 10pm. I hesitated—even for me, that’s a little late. I asked about any possibilities around 9pm. She reasoned it takes a bit to shuffle people out, and negotiated 9:30pm. By 4:10pm, I had a deal. But then I had five hours to kill. Lucky for me, I had the luxury of going home. A benefit of living relatively close to the area, I walked the dog and even fancied a bit of a nap before heading back out once more, this time to actually eat.
Yet when I returned hours later, I was a bit surprised to find yet another line outside, or really, more of a clump. I quickly became a part of it too, as the same hostess as before bluntly told me my table wasn’t ready. It wasn't totally unexpected, after all, I had arrived 10 minutes early. So I too stood off to the side of the entryway, as others waited for their respective tables and to pick up orders of pizza (which can only be ordered after 4pm on the day of). Thirty minutes later, I finally made my way past the red velvet rope at the door (yes, they have one).
But once I crossed the threshold, I immediately understood the appeal. Quaint is the best way to describe the interior, with its silver-tinned ceilings and worn wooden tables, which were softly illuminated by dim lights and candles that dripped wax. The playlist of old school funk and rock and roll only added to the charm of it all. It would be easy to imagine Beyoncé specifically at my seat, as our table was nearly nudged up against the foot of the marble counter of the kitchen. Over the course of the evening, each of us took long glances at the chefs as they rolled out dough with wine bottles, shaved cheeses and mushrooms over top of pizzas and tended to the fire of the domed, red brick oven.
Soon, the waitress came over to rattle off the menu. It was a quick conversation as only two items exist: large oie with basil ($32) and a calzone, small ($19) or large ($29). There is generally an off-menu item to have, usually pasta; toppings are extra, and BYOB is certainly encouraged. We ordered a pizza with the addition of pepperoni ($5) and a small calzone with sweet peppers ($3), shallots ($3) and garlic ($3).
Halfway through our first bottle of wine, the pièce de résistance arrived. The size alone was enough to make an entrance, as one pie easily took up the entire table. I wouldn't necessarily call the pizza Neapolitan, and neither would the owner, but they are sure as hell cousins with blistery, bubbling edges. The center is softer and soupier but a tick more fortified. A bite yields a lightly sweet but tart burst of tomatoes, evened with mozzarella and milky burrata. A full frond bite of basil was actually welcome, and helped add to the freshness of it all. The calzone, which I've heard is the truth, surprisingly fell a bit flat for me. It started well enough, with a shattery crust, slightly blackened by its time in the oven. It spilled out with the appropriate amount of cheese (i.e., a lot), but that was mainly it. The sprinkling of green peppers and shallots was too light, and couldn't stand up to the raw addition of garlic. Luckily, the shallow bowl of sauce that came with it helped to tamp it down. It is possible that the onus is on us, and that we didn't pack it properly. However, we opted to cater to our vegetarian friend for the calzone, as she had no problem picking the pepperonis off the pizza earlier. But had we added pepperoni for another $5 more, our small calzone would have evened out to $29 for four small slices.
On that Sunday, we ended up closing out the restaurant, spilling out onto the street with half-finished bottles of wine, a little past 11pm. As I stared at the façade, I felt a sense of accomplishment that, despite being a certified hater of lines, I had completed the whole rigmarole and came out relatively satisfied. Yet, I wholly admit that my wait was a bit lower stakes than expected. I live close, and I clearly don't mind a late table, shaving my wait time down from two hours or more to less than one. Plus, the weather was pleasant enough, and I didn't mind thumbing through a few pages of my book while waiting. But it is also possible that I caught them on a good day. Even during the winter months, Lucali's lines stay consistent, especially as the holidays bring even more visitors. So would you catch me outside, crouched in a puffy coat for a pizza and a calzone in the winter? No. In the same vein, would I recommend a friend from Harlem to come down, wait for the chance at a table, only to have to wait around longer for the place to open? I can't say that I would.
Instead, if you happen to have an amenable Brooklyn buddy, I'd kindly ask them to bear the line for the good of the group. Of course, I'd made sure to thank them handsomely over pizza and a few glugs of good wine for their service. And when in doubt, there is always Taskrabbit.