By Marco Shalma

Walk into any New York slice shop and there’s always one person pointing at the fanciest thing behind the glass. Buffalo chicken. Vodka square. Grandma slice with so much garnish it looks like it came from a florist. Eight dollars later, they’re eating confusion. Meanwhile the guy in paint-splattered Dickies steps up, doesn’t blink, says “plain,” pays three bucks, and is out the door before your slice even hits the oven. He’s not being boring. He’s doing reconnaissance.

The plain cheese slice is the truth serum. Every shop can hide behind toppings, sauces, drizzles, and “Grandma style” marketing. Nobody can hide on a plain slice.

Start with the crust. Pick it up. Does it fold with a clean line or droop like it’s ashamed of itself. A crisp bottom with a little char tells you they’re doing the bake right. A soggy bottom means you’re about to eat disappointment.

Check the sauce. You want tomatoes with acidity, a little garlic, some oregano. If it tastes like someone stirred sugar into jarred marinara, walk away. Real sauce tastes like actual tomatoes, not nostalgia for Lunchables.

Then the cheese. Good mozzarella melts into the slice. It stretches, it clings, it works with the sauce. What you don’t want is a shiny orange oil slick pooling in the center. That means cheap cheese or way too much of it. A solid slice holds itself together without leaving your hands looking like you changed oil.

If the plain slice hits all three—crust, sauce, cheese—you’ve found a real shop. Only then do you graduate to specialty slices. And here’s the next-level move: pepperoni. Real pepperoni curls into little cups and crisps at the edges. Flat pepperoni is code for “don’t trust anything else here.”

The order is simple. “Plain slice.” Fold. Taste. Decide. If it passes, then get cute. If it fails, finish, pay, and keep moving.

Send this to the friend who keeps getting fooled by pizza that photographs like a dream and eats like regret.