Death to False Pizza
Gabba Gabba promises a taste of Italy in the backyard of a punk bar.
What’s up bagel heads, we’re back in Oakland with another review for your consideration. But first, a little housekeeping.
Next week, I’ll be embarking on a cross country road trip to visit my famiglia on the East Coast! That’s right, we’re on a pilgrimage to the motherland, the old country, the place where it all began… the legendary Tristate Area - home of the best pizza, bagels and diners in the country.
But first, we have to get there. And I don’t know if you’ve looked at a map lately, but there are actually a lot of states in the middle. Big square states with suspiciously straight looking borders. I shudder to think what sort of “food” they eat. Let’s find out together! I’ll be sure to send you some dispatches from our journey, so stay tuned for another Jersey Boy road trip.
I’m also going to shake up our publishing schedule a bit. Publishing every Friday at the same time has felt okay but honestly my life is about to get a lot more chaotic and we’re just gonna roll with it. I’ll still aim to review a place every week, but if I miss a week or two, don’t panic, I’m probably just tussling with some midwesterners or arguing with my family. I’ll be back, don’t worry ;) Okay enough small talk.
I had a wild experience last week and I gotta tell someone about it. It all started on a Friday night with a party called Hot Goth Girlfriend at Thee Stork Club, a classic Oakland dive bar that’s been renovated and is actually looking really good lately.
I’m not much of a goth dude myself but a friend’s band was playing so I slipped into my leather jacket, laced up my Doc Martens and headed down to Telegraph Avenue to check out the scene.
As expected, the place was full of broody synth music and lots of freaks wearing black leather and too much eyeliner. If you’ve hung around Oakland’s punk scene it’s a familiar vibe. The show was good, but I’m not here to review music.
Halfway through the night after several rounds of drinks, our group wandered out to the back patio where all the cool kids were smoking cigarettes. That’s when my partner spotted a sign… “Fresh Pizza.”
“No fucking way,” I said, “we’re having a perfectly good Friday night, I am not going to ruin it with punk bar pizza.”
You’d think by now I’d look forward to these opportunities, but even pizza reviewers need to maintain good mental health. You really have to choose your battles in this line of work.
Unfortunately for me, hungrier minds prevailed and before I could protest further, we were waiting in line to order late night pizza from two punks slinging dough beneath an E-Z Up tent.
They’re called Gabba Gabba Pizza, a tiny business that does pop-ups and catering.
“Are you going to review it?” my partner asks.
“Oh you review pizza?” the woman at the counter asks with excitement.
“Yes,” I reply, “but I mostly talk about how pizza in California tastes horrible.”
The chef turns to face me, raises one eyebrow, and says “Let’s go.”
That’s when I first began to suspect that all was not as it seemed. The first thing that tipped me off was a big can of Primio d’Oro San Marzano tomatoes. There are lots of canned tomato options out there, but this stuff is imported from Italy. It’s the real deal, a key indicator that the person behind the counter has at least a baseline level of passion for what they’re doing.
The next thing I noticed were two small metal ovens, firewood stacked neatly beneath. Ahh, it’s wood fired. That explains the $20 price for a small Margherita pie.
Explaining their available toppings to a customer, the woman at the counter mentions “prosciutto.” The chef leans over… “prosciutto di parma,” he corrects her.
Could it be? No one but an actual Italian would ever care enough to make this distinction.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
Turns out the chef, Davide, is in fact from Italy. A warm feeling crept into my heart as I realized what was about to happen.
He grabbed a dough ball with confidence, flour splashing onto his leather jacket, and within seconds had stretched the dough into a perfect disc.
I grabbed the back of a chair to steady myself as I watched this performance unfold.
Kristi, the woman working the counter, must have noticed the look of awe on my face. “He prepares all of the dough by hand,” she smiled.
“You have to,” Davide continued. “The machine doesn’t have any feelings. This has feelings.” He thumped his hand against his heart.
That’s when I knew for certain that it was here, in the graffiti-covered backyard of a Hot Goth Girlfriend party, that I was about to try what could be the best pizza I have ever tasted in Oakland, California.
In less than a minute the dough was sauced and dressed with big pieces of fresh mozzarella and heaps of freshly torn basil leaves. Tossing it in the oven with the confidence of a maestro, Davide explained that he learned to bake pizzas from his grandmother in Verona. Every one of his ingredients is imported from Italy, sourced from places like Rockridge Market Hall.
For a pie of this caliber, $20 is a bargain!
Our Margherita came out of the oven in five minutes flat and just looking at it made me emotional.
The crust was thin in the middle but thick on the outside, with nice big air bubbles highlighting the naturally fermented dough. I took one bite and my surroundings melted away. Drunk goths with nose rings were suddenly replaced by visions of a beautiful grassy hillside in northern Italy, where the sweetness of San Marzano tomatoes grace my tongue with the pure essence of summer. The mozzarella is smooth and creamy with an exciting snap to it, an al dente sort of chewiness that reminds me of home. The crust is rich and complex, rivaling the best San Francisco sourdough. This pizza is everything it promised to be and more.
In last week’s review, I complained that a Margherita pie is supposed to have sliced tomatoes on top. That’s how I felt then. But I changed my mind. The cheese and crust were amazing, but it was actually the sauce that really elevated this pie for me. The richness of the tomato flavor in this sauce was so glorious, that tomato slices on top probably would have been too much.
Davide and I spent the next ten minutes bonding over pizza technique and where to find Italian ingredients. He recommends several great places in Oakland to try, including Lo Coco’s in Piedmont and Pollara in Berkeley. We hatch plans to embark on a Bay Area pizza tour, so stay tuned for that. We are laughing and smiling and posing for photos and I am overcome by a profound sense of gratitude for Davide Bedendo and Kristi Kremes for their tiny little pizza pop up and the joy that it brought to me that night, at the Hot Goth Girlfriend party.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you really can find good East Coast comfort food in California, if you just know where to look. So cancel your plans this weekend, you’re going to Thee Stork Club (2330 Telegraph Avenue) and heading straight to the backyard, where you will be trying this pizza and thanking me later. And don’t forget to follow Gabba Gabba on Instagram to keep track of this roving duo and where they may pop up next.
West Coast: 10
East Coast: 9
