Even if you’re the sort who sticks to the neighborhood when it comes to pizza, Tony Conte’s strip-mall spot is worth a journey. Conte escaped the world of fine dining—much of his training happened at New York’s Jean-Georges—and he shapes the dough each night himself. His crusts, with their ragged, super-charred edges are glorious, done up as a Margherita or with vodka sauce and meatballs. Load up on as many starters as you can (especially the beets with preserved-lemon yogurt), don’t miss the soft-serve, and arrive early. The small place doesn’t take reservations, and it shuts down when the dough runs out. Moderate.