Over three decades, Famous has spawned multiple offspring, sold 'em or seen 'em go their own way -- and these satellite locations have gone on to flourish or close, or change names and spit out their own franchised babies. Right now, the yellow pages list five Famous Pizzas in metro Denver, but only one is the original, the progenitor, the paterfamilias, and that's this one, at 98 South Broadway, where I'd stopped without thinking, just because I was hungry and it was there.
I didn't come for history. I'd come for a slice. And as much as I'd like to attribute my discovery of Famous to good research or my finely tuned critical radar, it wasn't that at all. It was a gut thing, a moment of East Coast recidivism, thinking I was back in thin-crust wonderland, where finding a good slice requires nothing more than stopping in front of the first lit storefront you see and slapping down a couple of bucks.
In Denver, you can sometimes drive four, five, even six blocks without seeing a pizza place, and you might have to go ten miles to find a good one. But back home in the Tri-State -- in particular, Buffalo, Rochester, Philly proper, those parts of Jersey that are actually just Big Apple-Philly suburbs, and all of NYC, except Long Island -- there are often three or four pie joints on a single block, and all of them are excellent. My wife and I, both transplants from this slice of heaven, gone from the Coast now for years, still sometimes suffer crippling bouts of pizza-related agoraphobia when we realize that there's not a pie joint within walking distance of wherever we are at any given moment.
And even if there were one, it would probably be one of those hellish, backward, Bizzaro World west-of-the-Mississippi pizzerias with their squishy crusts and spicy sauces and designer toppings cemented in vulcanized cheese product. But still, you can find a good slice in Denver. You just have to look hard. Or, if you're lucky, like me, you might be driving blind on a Saturday night and stop in front of a place you've passed by for years, a place that does pizza right. It's rare, but it happens. That's how I found Famous.
It was beckoning, bright and fragrant on a hot night, and I could smell it from two doors down: the charred flour and percolating tomato sauce, the full-bodied, yeasty, humid stink that would say pizza to a blind man. I saw the tattered blue-and-white awning over the entrance, the warm light spilling out onto the street, and, on the big front windows, "New York Style" spelled out in chipped and fading red paint.
Inside, Famous was shellacked with an archaeological strata of grime. It looked like no one had given a single thought over the past thirty years to turning any of the shop's profits toward decoration. Or a thorough cleaning. The floor was tiled. So were some of the walls and part of the counter. None of the tile matched. The chairs were plastic, the dozen tables bare formica. It was a room without adjectives, a blank canvas with a kitchen in the middle -- red sauce on gleaming stainless, a bank of blackened ovens, upright coolers and not much else.
"Getcha sumpin'?" the man behind the counter asked, his hands full of dough, the hair on his arms dusted to the elbows with flour.
"Two cheese slices," I said. There were five or six pies stacked up behind the smeared glass separating the counter and kitchen from the spare dining room: cheese, cheese and pepperoni, cheese and sausage, another all gunked up with a bunch of vegetables, another with mushrooms. "No," I corrected myself. "One cheese, one mushroom."
"Small Coke." No beers at Famous. No liquor license.
The pizza man grunted, punched the register, took my money, went back about his business. Not much in the way of customer service, granted, but I wasn't expecting any and didn't want much. I didn't want a buddy, I wanted pizza -- and both of us seemed to understand that. Had the guy stepped up, shaken my hand, told me the night's specials or even acknowledged my presence as anything more than just another customer in a long string of them stretching back to the 1970s, it would have been too much. It would have been wrong. That he didn't poke me in the nose with the pizza stick for changing my mind at the register or boot my ass to the curb for being indecisive in the clutch was enough. I took a table in the back, slurped my Coke and waited.