Tucked away on a quiet side street in the North Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint is a modest pizzeria with a striking logo depicting a playful pie in a bold, pop-art style. Nestled behind the red brick facade of a nondescript industrial building, the restaurant stretches out across the pavement in true Southern Italian fashion, inviting passersby to stop for an impromptu, convivial meal. A few small tables, covered in classic red-and-white gingham cloth, are scattered on the sidewalk. A string of tiny bulbs, hanging from a stop sign, gently lights the dining area, creating the perfect atmosphere for both a romantic dinner and a relaxed gathering with friends. If it wasn't for the commute down Meserole Street, the nearby YMCA, and the cluster of NYPD cars parked outside the 94th precinct, I could easily be fooled into believing I have been teleported back to Italy. But instead, this is Salsa, the site-specific Neapolitan restaurant created by Michele ‘Mike’ Bancale and Antonella Padulo in 2020.

A pandemic relocation, Bancale made the bittersweet decision to move to the Polish area after seven years in Bed-Stuy under the alias of Bravi Ragazzi (The Good Fellas), driven by the toll of too many robberies. Armed with a new concept, his latest venture reiterates the same core values—high-quality ingredients, patient fermentation, and a sustainable workplace—that he packed when he moved to the US from Naples ten years ago. Only this time, there are no servers and up until recently, while the eatery’s liquor license was pending, patrons could bring their own alcoholic beverages.

When I arrive at Salsa for our scheduled chat, it’s a steamy summer afternoon—the kind of weather that invites kids to tamper with fire hydrants. Yet, despite the uncomfortbale heat, Mike is hauling construction material on his stout shoulders, sweat dripping from beneath a stray curl on his forehead. I wave to get his attention and take a seat at one of the tables, aware that he’s in the middle of something. Next to me, two elderly diners are enthusiastically discussing the perfection of their meal.

Pretending it’s my first time here—I eat Salsa at least once a month—I start studying the laminated menu. It’s abundant. There are typical, mostly fried, Neapolitan street food delicacies for antipasto; mouthwatering primi piatti, and a tempting selection of 15 pizza flavors. Last but not least, deesserts. A dichotomy of sugary Southern treats like zeppole and cannoli made to order at the moment. I feel right at home.

My reverie is suddenly broken by Mike’s thick accent as he promises to join me shortly. To ease the wait, he asks if I am in the mood for pizza, which, due to the Italian philosophy (indoctrination rather) of never inconveniencing your host, I deny. However, I do accept a hot espresso.

“I’m expanding,” Mike announces, pulling out a foldable chair and settling in across from me. “We’re taking over the next-door room, and to keep costs low, I’ve been working on it every day for the past month. We should be finished soon.”

Mike exudes the kind of hunger for life and passion for food that only people from the southern part of Italy seem to possess. It’s contagious, the kind of story of resilience and grit you read about in history books. The ‘American Dream,’ as they used to call it. Mike has the type of drive that led the exodus of hundreds of thousands of Southern Italians to a new, often far away, country in search of better luck at the turn of the 20th century.

Just like many before him, Bancale arrived in New York as a broke twenty-year-old waiter, dreaming of building something that wasn’t possible in his homeland. A broken system, widespread pessimism, and tangled bureaucracy pushed him to board a plane to the USA after working in various restaurants across Europe. Before coming to New York, he had never kneaded dough.

“I paid someone to teach me how to make great pizza,” he reveals with a smirk, leaving me in disbelief. How could he have perfected his technique in such a short time? It turns out, it’s all about the chemistry of heat and fermentation.

“Without a good oven and long fermentation, you can’t get the dough right,” he explains. “Our pizzas rest for 8 to 12 hours, and our wood-fired oven was custom-made by a family with decades of experience and imported from Italy.”
The mosaic-clad furnace isn’t the only thing he gets from Italy, the prime ingredients—except for the mozzarella and veggies, which are sourced locally—are too.

I take a detour from our conversation to inquire about the cheese. The melty bits on top of Salsa’s pies are perfect. Why, then, can I never find high-quality mozzarella in the city?
“For convenience, most mozzarella here is dried out,” Mike explains, pointing me to Lioni, the producer he works with.

Salsa is open from 11 AM to 9.30 PM daily, with a 30-minute extension on weekends. “I could keep the restaurant open until 1 AM but that would mean overworking my staff and not being able to upkeep the quality,” says Mike, praising his employees for their abilities to churn out around 200 pizzas daily without breaking a sweat.

Having worked in restaurants all his life, Mike puts a lot of weight on treating his staff well. A pizzaiolo at Salsa makes up to $100.000 a year.

“It’s important for me to reward them and give them time to rest. I take care of other sides of the business nowadays so if it wasn’t for my guys I wouldn’t be able to keep the operation going,” he concedes, mentioning that the reason why he has no servers is because he wouldn’t be able to offer the same benefits. “Serving jobs are all about incentives. To keep good people, you need to offer good pay and benefits. I can’t do that. Plus, I want people to interact with my pizzaiolos,” he explains. The self-service model, which started during the pandemic, fits perfectly with the ethos of Salsa.

As an avid consumer of Mike’s superb meals, discovering the alchemy behind the making of such perfect pizza in a place so far away from where it was invented and where subpar, overly greasy pies are readily available on every corner, reiterates the concept that less is more. What you make only becomes noteworthy if how you make it has the right premises, in this case, good flour, tomato sauce, and the perfect heat.

As our conversation comes to an end, I confess that I’m such a big fan of Salsa’s pizza that sometimes I find myself dismissing mediocre pizza in Italy. Mike grins lightly, in the same way, a parent humbly accepts a compliment about their gifted kid. We say goodbye, knowing I’ll be back soon to indulge in the house special: The Salsa—a perfect combination of buffalo mozzarella, creamy tomato sauce, and fresh basil, rigorously spicy, just as the chef suggests.

When I return later, the restaurant is packed, and reggaeton is blasting from the speakers. I grab the last available table, put my order in, and prepare my taste buds for another slice of perfection. When the buzzer rings, signaling my pizza is ready, I’m hit with a wave of warm euphoria. Though far from Italy, this slice of heaven feels just like home.