Whether you’ve lived in Chicagoland your whole life or have just finished unpacking your suitcase, there is one thing you should know: You don’t have to go downtown to get good pizza. Instead, head west into Morton Grove. There, you will find a guy who has been making it his way, and only his way, since 1971. And lucky for us, he makes it pretty darn well.
You see, my dad was coming into town and we were in the mood for pizza. We are both familiar enough with the area to know we wouldn’t really be disappointed. But someplace has to rise above them all, right? So I scanned a few magazines, scrolled through some blogs, and confirmed my findings on Yelp.
What I came up with was a name, Burt’s Place. And a strict set of instructions:
- Call ahead your reservation, including your pizza order.
- Upon entering the restaurant, don’t attempt to seat yourself.
- Let them serve you each slice of pizza individually, no matter how hungry you are.
It would be imperative that I follow these rules, all reviewers said. Although it seemed simple enough, I was still concerned. And like the reviewers and journalists to “discover” Burt’s Place before me, I quickly gave in to feeling an almost overwhelming respect, bordering on genuine fear.
From the outside, the place looks like a down-and-out neighborhood bar; a slightly kitschy home to bands of lonesome businessmen — a temporary respite on the trek back from the nearby Metra station. Housed in a former blacksmith’s shop outside the limits of a city that claims a style of pizza all its own, it’s hard to believe that the guy inside is dishing up a pie that has received world-class recognition.
Aside from receiving pages of citizen reviews, it has been written up by Saveur Magazine, a culinary publication, and was featured last February on the Travel Channel’s No Reservations, hosted by writer and professional chef Anthony Bourdain. The prestige, the notoriety, the nonchalant way the owners Burt and Sharon Katz approach their fame — it all began to play out before us just as it had done to countless others. It was a game, and we knew it would be very important to play our cards right.
We cautiously approach the restaurant. When we called in our order earlier that day, we were told to arrive ten minutes prior to our reservation to be seated and given beverages before being served. Of course, we are too early. But you can only circle the block so many times and it doesn’t take long to fill up a gas tank. So we surrender and follow behind Sharon, Burt’s wife and the woman in charge of the front of the house as she leads us to our table.
“I’ll go let Burt know you’re here,” she tells us. We are both taken aback. Considering who we are (tourists) and where we are standing, it doesn’t seem like our presence should be of any significance to the gruff, bearded man working back in the kitchen.
But as the meal unfolds, the rules — the whole act — it all begins to make sense.
Put simply, it’s a system. Nearly ten minutes after we were slated to arrive, our pizza is brought out, slices cut and placed on our plates. Sharon, the only server in the small room, leaves the pan with us and continues to make the rounds. She comes back intermittently to refresh our beverages and chat. Surprisingly, we are free to serve ourselves. Every so often an older man comes out to observe. Reviewers had noted that this man, presumably The Burt Katz, would emerge from the kitchen sometime during the meal and go from table to table, making small talk with his customers.
This is him, the real deal. The creator of the pizza we are devouring without abandon. The man whose work we are critiquing, publicly adoring and silently worshiping.
He stops at our table and introduces himself. He talks with my Dad and explains how a place like Burt’s is able to succeed in a chain-franchise infested restaurant industry, in spite of such peculiarities as (allegedly) turning away drop-in customers on busy nights and forbidding his patrons the opportunity to serve themselves second helpings of their own pizza. He proudly declares that the “little guy” can be quirky and, after 38 years, still be going strong.
Burt asks his customers to place their order as early as possible so as to ensure that each pizza is fresh and up to the standards he has set for his enterprise. With two ovens and one man, the pizzas are made to order and each take about an hour to cook. On busy nights, he says he has the process timed down to the second, making the ten minutes of preparatory service extremely important.
It’s based on a desire for quality, Burt stresses. It’s what is keeping him alive, even as chain restaurants spread into the suburbs and beyond like tentacles intent on squeezing the last bit of life out of homegrown enterprises. The Giordano’s on the corner, the Lou Malnati’s in nearby Park Ridge (and Wilmette, Evanston and Lincolnwood). These places are the pinnacle of the suburban culinary scene. They line major roads and guard strip malls with their aesthetically pleasing signage, faux décor and sterile atmosphere.
But eating at any of those places means missing out on the charm of the lonesome converted blacksmith’s shop at the end of a shaded neighborhood street. It means never experiencing the charisma of a couple who see their enterprise as an art studio, in which good pizza waits for no one.