All of the pizzas are framed by a dough that’s crafted in-house. At its best, it results in a crust that lends its toppings a yeasty-sweet and char-flecked depth. Sometimes, however, the pizzas would have benefited from a bit more crispiness. The crust at the edges of all the pizzas, however, was across-the-board excellent, freckled black and blistered from the oven’s heat.
With Don Draper and Co. back on television and a nationwide cocktail renaissance that shows no signs of slowing down, the time couldn’t be riper for a restaurant like the Walnut Street Supper Club. The effect, however, is disappointingly incomplete.
Menapace brines, then fries the bony little buggers, rendering the considerable fat succulent and the strands of meat both crisp and redolent with piggy goodness—think crunchy bacon and fatty pork belly, twisted together around a bone not unlike a chicken wing.
I’m generally not the kind of guy to channel my inner Kobayashi. I have immense respect for the hot-dog-eating legend. But a jolt of fear ran up my spine and down my colon when my editor suggested conducting a hot dog throwdown, comparing similarly themed dogs.
We’ve been stuffing ourselves to the gills around here with soul food from every corner of this fair city. And in the Food & Drink Issue you can see where, exactly, we’ve been doing it. Dig in.