It was finally time to head into New York for an early Christmas gift to my son. We were going to Krispy Pizza, the Brooklyn location he and I had been watching endlessly on Instagram. Stories, reels, posts. Long before we left Connecticut, the place had taken on a life of its own.
Getting from Connecticut into Brooklyn is daunting. The GPS offered no clean path and sent us winding through Queens before dropping us toward the southern tip of the island. I assumed it would be an easy hour and a half, like going into Manhattan. Instead, it stretched past two hours. That extra time only inflated expectations.
This was our family’s first real trip to Brooklyn. Born in the Bronx, with a mother from Queens and a father from Manhattan, Brooklyn had always been the forgotten borough. The red-headed stepchild. No one ever really went there, and anyone who did never had much good to say.
We were pleasantly surprised. Once we arrived, the neighborhood felt calmer and less dense than the trek through Queens. Most people seemed to be home. The streets were relatively quiet when we pulled in around four or four-thirty.
We lucked out with street parking and found a meter to cover our time. Across the street, in big red letters, was Krispy Pizza. The sign featured a self-made family crest filled with pizza and the father’s initial, Pete. I wasn’t even sure which door was the entrance. I pulled a handle and suddenly we were inside.
Instant chaos. A line stretched all the way to the back of the restaurant, with barely enough room to move through the front. I’m not a fan of lines, but after that drive, there was no hesitation.
During the ride, we had hoped to catch a glimpse of the proprietor we’d watched so many times online. Relief hit when we spotted him. Freddy was there. Dark hair brushed back, streaked with white flecks of mozzarella, his Sicilian skin looking like it had been baked in the same ovens as the pies to a warm Mediterranean glow. He had somehow created his own avatar and cast himself in a real-life movie. A true pizzaiolo. Head down, focused, moving with practiced rhythm.
As we worked our way through the crowd, my brother and sister-in-law were already there. Instead of pulling a chat-and-cut move, we tried to find tables, which seemed impossible in such a packed place. Somehow, my wife made it happen.
She struck up a conversation with a young guy holding a table while waiting for his girlfriend, who was stuck in the bathroom line. They had come all the way from Los Angeles and this was their final stop. Instagram fame again.
She turned around like a daytime talk show host and did it again. Another table appeared. This couple was from Texas. I started wondering how many people in that room were locals and how many had traveled just for this moment.
We finally sat down and sent in our order. We went with a mix of things to try. I had a regular slice, buffalo chicken, and the famous buffalo chicken pizza wheel. I watched Freddy the entire time. Head down, nonstop. Pie after pie. I wanted my son to go say hello, but it didn’t feel right. The line was long and they were just trying to keep up.
Here’s where it gets uncomfortable, and probably why I kept hesitating to write this.
The pizza was okay. Not great. Not bad. Just okay.
We had built this place up in our heads. We had watched quiet morning videos of Freddy working alone, talking about his father and learning the family business with pride. What we experienced instead was a place that had become a destination. The priority now was survival. Crank out pizza. Keep the line moving.
We didn’t order a fresh pie. We had slices from pies baked earlier and reheated. It felt rushed. It wasn’t the pizza we had imagined.
The pizza wheel was my favorite. It was pretty good. But even as I ate it, I found myself thinking about how I could ask my wife, my mother-in-law, or my sister-in-law to recreate it just as well, if not better.
As we sat there, enjoying our hard-earned tables, the truth settled in. The highlights were what they always are. Being with family. Making time to take an adventure. Stepping out of routine and turning a meal into a memory.
Some places live better in anticipation than execution. Maybe if my son and I came back at nine in the morning, when the day is just beginning, it would be a different story. Still, that doesn’t make the trip a failure. It’s a reminder that the best part is rarely what’s on the plate, but who’s sitting across from you.
Pizza score: 6.9
Life with Chicken and Broccoli 