It has been said that you have never lived until you have had a good beer with a great pizza* and if that is in fact one of life’s lesser known secrets then I would suggest you quickly head to Patsy’s Pizzeria. We ate at their Chelsea station after long misguided (map error) walk through the city.
While my wife will likely disagree, she being an acolyte of the deep dish midwestern pie found at Gino’s East, Patsy’s was the best pizza I had ever eaten. A thin crispy crust, fresh basil, a sauce which tasted like the squeezed pulp of a well-ripened tomato, and dollops of creamy mozzarella (at the perfect non-blister inducing temperature): The pizza arrived ready to be eaten right after its photograph was taken.
Patsy’s fills in quickly at noon. Lunch-goers slide into the white cloth tables in the large dining room. There is also a small upstairs area overlooking the main floor which is perfect for a “working lunch" although once the trays arrive I find it hard to imagine how one, even those well-practiced in delayed gratification, could possibly concentrate on anything other than the pizza.
*Epictitus. Or was it Ron Swanson?