Jack's Pizza

When you see the word “pizza,” something inevitably pops into your head. It might be a memory of an impossibly deep Chicago-style pizza packed in casserole-like layers of olives, sausage, tomato sauce, cheese and saturated dough. It might be the delicious paradox of thin-crust pizza – crunchy on the bottom, chewy in the center – that you folded sloppily into your mouth in your dorm room. Or maybe the savory smell of caramelized ham and pineapple, or the mellow aroma of wet mozzarella melting rapturously with sweet plum tomatoes and basil in the intense heat of a wood-fired oven.

In Chicago it is thick. In New York it is thin and wide. Greek immigrants in the Northeastern U.S. slathered dough with olive oil to make it crisp and topped it with feta cheese and Kalamata olives. California pizza became a platform for non-traditional seasonal produce like bean sprouts and shaved carrots. Vermont pizza replaced tomato sauce with a drizzle of real maple syrup over breakfast sausage and eggs. The Western U.S., ironically, popularized Hawaiian pizza, topping ours with sweet pineapple and sliced ham.

Everyone has their own idea about what constitutes a great slice. Considering the history and passion associated with the food, writing about “pizza” is like tackling the topic “The Bible,” or “The Chinese Empire” or “Logan Park Strips.” Where does one begin?

I began at Jack's Woodfired Oven at 256 North Main in Logan. I found Jack and Julie Carlisle working around the large Italian-built wood burning pizza oven in the center of the restaurant. Sticks of apple wood were stacked loosely against the wall. White-hot coals lit the interior of the oven, cooking fragrant yeast dough. I was there for some real pizza.

I know what you are thinking, real pizza? But there is such a thing. Italians cared enough about pizza to “copyright” the method, and to delineate the ingredients that go into an authentic one. There is even an organization.

According to the Verace Pizza Napoletana Association (VPNA) based in Naples, Italy, (and backed by the European Union) authentic pizza must be cooked in a wood oven. Jack's got one. It cooks at an infernal 900 degrees. Jack's job is to stand in front of the cave-shaped opening, shoveling around the rapidly rising dough. Cooking a pizza at home can take 10-20 minutes, but in a wood-fired oven like Jack's, the pizza is done in two. The high heat removes the moisture from the thin crust quickly, making is crispy on the outside, and leaving it chewy on the inside.

I ordered the Margherita pizza (at Jack's it is called “That One Pizza,” but if you ask for a Margherita, they'll know what you are talking about). This classic Italian pizza is made with high-moisture mozzarella, tomatoes, and fresh basil leaves – and according to VPNA, is the only certifiably authentic pizza in existence.

Jack cut generous slabs of fresh mozzarella (the kind packed in brine) and scattered them with sauce on the hand-stretched dough. It melts in a creamy pool, and has a chewy, texture with no grease. This type of cheese begins extremely mild, noted Julie, but as it cooks it absorbs the intense flavors of the other toppings … the sweet acidity of tomatoes, the fragrant fresh basil, and the woody taste of smoke and extra virgin olive oil.

The Carlisles seek out the best possible ingredients, and get them locally when they can. The flour in the dough comes from Central Milling Flour on Center Street. Their Gouda, Gruyere, and Feta come from Rockhill Creamery. The dough is handmade. The sauce comes from fresh tomatoes – seeded by hand. The basil is fresh, fragrant, and whole. It becomes slightly crisp on the top of my pizza.

For the Carlisles, this all began as one serious hobby. They built a wood-burning oven in their yard, just to experiment. They'd never been to Italy, or to New York City for that matter. They'd never tried to emulate the authentic Pizza Napoletana … it just turned out that what the Carlisles liked was basically the same pizza the Italians had perfected over hundreds of years. You start with really good flour, and make a wet dough, said Julie. That way you get a good rise in the hot oven, and get exceptional texture.

My Margherita was exceptional. The salty Mozzarella absorbed a mild smoky flavor from the oven accentuated by a bit of Parmesan and smoked Provolone. The mottled brown crust had just a hint of char and was well balanced by sweet tomatoes, clean-tasting basil and chewy cheese. Pizza at Jack's needs to be folded to be eaten properly. Because the focus of the pizza is flavor, not structure, the crust isn't super-inflated. It's the toppings that you taste. The Carlisles encourage pizza seekers to order no more than three toppings. If you get more than that, said Jack, the flavors are muddled, too intense, and the thing doesn't cook properly.

When you go to Jack's, I recommend ordering one pizza per person. The prices are reasonable, and the current lunch special is a downright deal. My companion and I ordered one small (9 inch), as well as two “mini” (6 inch) pizzas that came with the lunch special. When we left, we weren't carrying any boxes. The large (12 inch) may feed more than one, but I'd lean to the hungry side when ordering.

To clear them of any liability, the Carlisle's pizza does not conform to all the freakishly strict standards maintained by the VPNA. The price of importing San Marzano plum tomatoes from the south of Italy, and south European-produced buffalo cheese would be cost prohibitive, for one. And they don't measure their stretched dough to the centimeter. So if you want a technically correct VPNA pizza, fly to Italy. But if you want a pizza that at heart is authentic, with a dash of Cache Valley, go to Jack's.