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Home > Restaurants > Di Fara Pizza

Di Fara Pizza

Critic's Pick Critics' Pick

1424 Ave. J, Brooklyn, NY 11230 40.624956 -73.962075
at E. 15th St.  See Map | Subway Directions Hopstop Popup
718-258-1367 Send to Phone

  • Cuisine: Pizza
  • Price Range: $$

    Key to Prices and ratings

    • Almost Perfect
    • Exceptional
    • Generally Excellent
    • Very Good
    • Good
    Cheap Eats
    • Best in Category
    • Excellent
    • Delicious
    • Very Good
    • Noteworthy
    • Very Expensive
    • Expensive
    • Moderate
    • Cheap
  • Reader Rating:

    7 out of 10


    31 Reviews | Write a Review

Photo by Dominic Perri

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Official Website


Tue-Sat, noon-8pm; Sun, 1pm-8pm; Mon, closed

Nearby Subway Stops

Q at Ave. J



Payment Methods

Cash Only

Special Features

  • Classic NY
  • Lunch
  • Take-Out


  • No Alcohol


Not Accepted


The place is a dump, the ordering system fraught with peril, and the wait for a slice, let alone a pie, a heroic journey into the unknown. Which isn’t to say a visit to Di Fara in the far reaches of Brooklyn isn’t worth the trip. On the contrary, no serious student of New York pizza has not been to Di Fara. True, both the round New York–Neapolitan hybrid and the Sicilian pies would be better if the crusts weren’t so stiff. But that’s a flaw that’s easily forgiven in light of what might be the most invigorating tomato sauce in town, combined with a knockout three-cheese combo. It’s pizza that’s big and bold, rough around the edges, and more than a little messy; it’s what New York–style pizza is all about. And yet the real star of the show here is not the pie but the pie man—septuagenarian Domenico DeMarco, a remarkable one-man pizza machine who produces every pie himself. This, despite the fact that he’s been on the job for 50 years, and that his movements behind the counter resemble those of a turtle with a hangover. Although DeMarco works his magic for most of his fourteen-hour day with his back turned to his audience, like some kind of pizzaiolo Miles Davis in comfortable, flour-caked shoes, he has his own humble way of playing to the crowd. “Whose pizza is this?” he mutters shyly as he cuts through the thing with an old pizza cutter. “That’s mine,” comes a rejuvenated voice from the weary mob. “Okay,” says Dom, lifting his usual downward gaze for the split second it takes to make a maestro-disciple connection, the bubbling pie its own delicious benediction.

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