They say pizza is like sex. Even bad pizza is still pretty damn good.
But if that’s true for eating pizza, what does that make the people who make it?
The guy who rips together a dough in the morning and bakes it that afternoon—he’s just going through the motions. It works. It fills a need. Nobody leaves angry. Nobody leaves truly satisfied either.
Then there’s the pizza maker who waits. Who obsesses over flour blends, fermentation, heat, and timing. Who knows when to leave the dough alone and when to touch it. Who watches the pie like it’s alive—because it is. This is someone who understands that the best things don’t respond well to rushing. That patience isn’t laziness—it’s passion.
That’s the difference between making pizza and making something worth remembering.
That’s what’s happening at Pizza Nota.
I’ve been in plenty of pizza shops across this fine state. In some, I can sit down and talk flour, fermentation, hydration, flavor—not because I’m an expert, but because I know just enough to recognize someone who is. In others, the conversation starts and ends with whatever canned sauce they’re buying these days.
Walking into Pizza Nota, I got a geography lesson before I even got a slice—learning where their flours come from and why they use them.
Pizza Nota aims to blend New Haven and New York styles: a pizza cooked in gas and finished in coal. A New York pie pushed further than most New York shops would dare, but one that a New Haven purist might say could use another minute in the oven. I don’t know if they’ve fully merged the two styles—but I do know they’ve made one hell of a New York-style pizza.
Dark brown. Crispy. Stiff. Flavorful. That’s the crust.
The tomato pie is damn near perfect—thin and rigid, with a sauce simple enough to let the tomato speak, but dressed just enough to hit that savory nerve. Fresh basil. Salty pecorino. Soft bursts of confit garlic.
The Enzo leans the other direction: subtle vodka sauce, spicy pepperoni, bright torn basil, cooled out by house-made stracciatella.
The pizza at Pizza Nota takes time—at least 72 hours of fermentation. They’re fast, but they don’t rush. They make the dough they make, and when it sells out, it sells out. I hope it stays that way. I don’t want unlimited access to some of the best pizza in Rochester. I want a craftsman who sets the pace and asks me to meet them there.
Great food should require a little sacrifice. I’m happy to be uncomfortable if it means getting the best someone has to offer.
This is pizza you admire. Pizza you brag about. When friends visit from out of town, this is where you take them to show off what home can do. You make sure the lighting is right before taking the picture of this pie.
My version of a perfect night looks like this: a tomato pie from here at Pizza Nota, four or five Negronis, candles, Across a Wire by Counting Crows on the turntable, and the company of a good friend.
And just like that, you’ve got yourself a perfect evening.
