I heard about a mythical pizza, so good that a sixteen-inch regular cheese pie costs $25 and if I wanted just a slice of it, it costs not $3 but $5. The special, with sausage and onion, is an unbelievable $30. I got the lowdown from Arthur, this Bakharian Jewish guy who manages the colonic place I went to recently. (I'll post about my gut-cleaning experience another time). Anyway, Arthur is this nice, gregarious Bakharian Jewish cutie who was asking me if I knew the holy grail of pizza, a place that only exists on Avenue J, in the midst of an Orthodox Jewish community. No, I said, still in awe at the fantastically impossible price tag. I said I'd look into it. I did. The next time I drove to Brooklyn College, where my efforts to obtain some medieval English lit experience is making pottage out of my brain, I decided to drop by and get a pie. I always drove by anyway and because I knew at that point what to look for, I zoned in on the place. It's a non-descript storefront on the corner of Avenue J and East 15th. It was raining so hard that night that there were sharks swimming in my nice European sandals. However, it was crowded inside and I had to wait about 20 minutes to get my pie. So I went across the street to Walgreen's to buy myself an umbrella and stared at the cruel drops of rain greedily wetting everything it could wet, including my sandals. By the time I thought my pie was done, there was a cardboard "CLOSED" sign hanging between the door and I squeezed in. There she was, my pie, freshly out of the oven. Then the old man, the mastermind of it all, took freshly grated cheese and sprinkled it all over and if that wasn't enough, he took a bunch of basil and started clipping it into pieces all over the pie. It smelled like what a $25 dollar pie should. I rushed home and gorged along with my siblings. Then our taste buds exploded. This pie has killed the taste of pizza for us. This pie was the bomb. We're doomed. No other pizza shall do from now on.