What began as a humble hobby—friends slinging dough and sauce in a Ukrainian Village apartment—has grown into something of a cult favorite. Enter Pizz’Amici, the latest in this delicious evolution: a small, casual spot with a big reputation and, apparently, even bigger demand.

Case in point: my friend somehow managed to land the impossible-to-get reservation for 6 PM on a Thursday. I showed up with my contribution: a chilled bottle of Secateur Chenin Blanc, because they’re still BYOB(W)—Bring Your Own Bottle (of Wine). And really, is there any better pairing than pizza and wine? Maybe sweatpants and elastic waistbands, but I digress.

The menu is refreshingly simple: five or six appetizers and a build-your-own thin crust pizza situation. No overwrought truffle oil drizzle or foam of anything in sight.

We wrestled with appetizer indecision (basically wanted all of them) but ended up with the House Salad—arugula, pecorino, lemon, and olive oil. When it arrived, it was less a salad and more a giant mountain. Somewhere beneath that Everest of arugula was the pecorino, but we weren’t mad about it, I am crazy for bitter greens and will literally add arugula to most of my dishes. It was light, zippy, and gave us the illusion of health before we ordered two pizzas. For balance.

The reason for the pizza plural? A classic impasse. My friend is Team Hot Honey, all day, every day. Meanwhile, I’m firmly on Team “Why is my dinner sticky?” Possibly a British thing? Or maybe I’m just sweet-averse.

So, she crafted a blend of flavors: half sausage with giardiniera, half pepperoni with jalapeños and hot honey. She was thrilled. I remained politely unconvinced. Meanwhile, I stayed slightly more traditional with a half-and-half: sausage, mushrooms, and black olives on one side, and pepperoni on the other—pepperoni that slapped with just the right amount of heat. I was very, very happy. Possibly in love.

This pizza? Next. Level. The crust is everything a thin crust dreams of being: crisp, golden, and able to hold up under all the toppings without turning into a soggy tragedy. The sauce—tangy and just sweet enough—hugs the crust in all the right ways. And the toppings? Quality. I asked about the sausage and they source it from a butcher on the South Side. Translation: not your standard grocery store fare. This is meat with street cred.

The vibe inside is pure joy: a constant rotation of friends, families, and pizza pilgrims, all grinning mid-bite. It’s the kind of place where conversation is loud, tables are coveted, and everyone’s just happy to be there—like the Cheers of pizza, if you will.

We lingered for about an hour and a half, then gave up our table to the next hopefuls. But not before boxing up our glorious leftovers and migrating to the bar to finish our wine. Priorities.

Final note: I gave the remaining pizza to my doorperson and they raved. If that isn’t the ultimate test of a good slice—surviving a car ride and still earning a glowing review—I don’t know what is.