At Cochiaro's Pizza, all pies start out as a disc of freshly-made dough. Once the dough is rolled out?customers can choose from regular, thin, or extra-thin crust pizza?, it's slathered in Cochiaro's signature sauce and crowned with whole milk cheese. Customers can then order specific toppings from an array of eight meats and 12 veggies. Of course, the cooks know that not everyone is in the mood for pizza all the time. So to satisfy this crowd, they prepare pastas, burgers, and BBQ rib tips.
When Fox News set out to discover who was serving the best pizza in Chicago, they put together a team of three pizza experts––a world pizza eating finalist, a think-tank chef for Fruschetta pizza corporation, and a college student––to slice through the competition. The results? The trio awarded Grand Stand Pizza the winner with a score of 4.5 out of 5, beating out Chi-Town standard Nancy's Pizza. The secret might lie in the crust. Said one tester, "you could have put anything on top of that dough and it would have tasted good." Chefs roll that crust out to make thin, pan, double-crust, and stuffed pizzas then pile on classic toppings such as pepperoni, black olives, and hot giardiniera or premium toppings such as Italian beef or gold bullion. The choices don't end there, though. Along with pizza, the restaurant also serves up hearty helpings of pasta, homemade meatball sandwiches, and Italian desserts such as cannoli, tiramisu, and homemade Italian ice.
Pescatore means “Italian fisherman,” according to Vito Barbanente, Pescatore Palace's owner and chef. He lives far from any sea and seldom pulls anything out of saltwater, but having spent his life transforming catch into cuisine, he might well have earned an honorary place among the ranks of said seafarers. In his signature dish, he tops market-fresh fish of the day with a grilled medley of octopus, calamari, cuttlefish, and shrimp. He also harvests land ingredients, rounding out his seafood-rich menu with veal chops, housemade gnocchi, and metal forks instead of tridents.
For nearly a decade, the Pecoraro family has worked to keep the plates of Franklin Park citizens full. At Gianni's Ristorante & Pizzeria, their chefs prepare rustic Italian dishes from fresh ingredients, such as farfalle tossed with spring vegetables and linguine topped with shrimp or clams. They also prepare veal and chicken parmigiana style, Pompeii style with eggplant, and piccata style with lemon-wine sauce, and they whip up seafood entrees such as shrimp in a brandy-cream sauce and grilled swordfish. The oven gently toasts an array of thin-crust, stuffed-crust, and thick pan pizzas to shades of golden brown unattainable with most tanning beds.
Nick’s Deli, Pizza, Roast Beef & Seafood’s sprawling menu, lauded in the Marlborough Patch, runs the gamut from dozens of themed pizzas and calzones to family-recipe roast-beef sandwiches. A steaming meatball sub stalks elusive hunger pangs with torpedoes of homemade ground meat and sonar-guided sprinklings of feta cheese, tomato, and lettuce ($5.55 for a small; $6.65 for a large). Crunchy romaine lettuce and croutons chaperone grilled chicken in the caesar-salad wrap ($6.25), and a gooey Spartan pizza sows feta, green pepper, and chicken in a tomato-laden field of dough ($9.99–$14.99), just as ancient Italian pizza farmers once sewed their fields with marinara-sauce seeds.
In 1976, an empty Elmhurst storefront became the conduit for chef Angelo Battaglia’s culinary dreams when he founded Two Brothers from Italy Ristorante & Pizzeria with his wife, Rosalia. Now grown to four times its original size, the restaurant still serves up Angelo’s original recipes, prepared under the guidance of the Battaglias' daughter, Joanne. The voluminous menu swaps between pizzas peppered with 29 different toppings and pastas served with your choice of 10 noodles and eight sauces. Waiters ferry each plate beneath rounded archways into a dining room whose white tablecloths and floral accents radiate refinement. Private party specials, including a seven-course family-style meal, feed clusters of 25 or more without the need to pry off an asteroid-sized chunk of the moon's cheese.