Just that kind of place

"Go check out the men’s room,” my wife urged. “You can tell a lot about a place by its bathrooms.” So I did. Clean. Fresh-smelling. A little dim, lighting-wise. So I guess I can only conclude that food at the Pizza Caffe must be good.

It was a weekday evening in a neighborhood—Eastern and Warm Springs—not exactly hurting for decent places to eat. Memphis Championship Barbecue is just down the road, and the Mexican seafood joint La Barca is across the street, with another pizza parlor, Giovanni’s, behind that. Perhaps that’s why there weren’t many customers.

It’s the sort of place where you walk in, order and pay at the counter and then sit down, which we like—no lolling around waiting for the server to bring the bill. We ordered an appetizer, a panini for me and a salad for my wife.

Three guys in the next booth, obviously employees, were talking about the photo shoot that produced the picture on this page. One of them said, “I don’t know if it’s going to be a good or bad review. But I guess they wouldn’t be taking the picture if it was bad, right?”

Whoa! That’s not how it works, fellas. For example: Let me say right off that the shrimp and tomato bruschetta appetizer was half-good—the shrimp and tomato part was terrific, with touches of shrimp working in and out of a sweeter base taste that we couldn’t place. It didn’t come off like an ordinary glop of diced tomato. But the bread! Rock-hard. Trying to chew through it almost cost me an incisor. Finally had to use a knife to chisel off bite-size pieces. (I was about to note, for the sake of balance, that on a subsequent visit, I saw a woman eating the exact same dish with no bread-density issues at all. But then the guy I was with tried a bite of his shrimp scampi appetizer, which came on the same bread, and found it as stony as mine had been. The shrimp I poached from his plate was great, though; the lively sauce was worth two of the three exclamation points the menu gives it.) The sweetish topping almost made up for the bread. “What is this?” I asked the waiter, pointing to the syrupy stuff I had determined was responsible for the great taste. My wife thought it was honey.

“Balsamic reduction,” he said, appearing pleased that I asked. (You can tell a lot about a place by the demeanor of the staff.)

“I like this place,” my wife said. She’s a sucker for pleasant, informal eateries like this. The walls are done in deep red, the floors in dark stone, and, except for Rocky playing silently on the flat-screens, there was nothing in the way of florid Italian-restaurant kitsch. (Not even the red-and-white tablecloths I expected.) Lights encased in bullet-shaped blue and white glass hang from the exposed ceiling. The big, east-facing windows let in the graying evening, making the relatively small place feel more expansive.

My panini arrived, a grilled wonder of prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, tomato and olive oil. Delicious. Its simplicity reminded me that sometimes the best thing you can do with good ingredients is get out of their way, a lesson this kitchen clearly knows. My wife’s chopped barbecue salad was also good.

Even better was the pizzini, “like a calzone, only thinner,” as the counter girl said on my second visit. Picture a thin-crust pizza folded in half: that’s a pizzini. Mine bulged with sausage and roasted peppers, ingredients I picked more or less at random from a list of more than 20 possibilities. It was big enough that I gave a slice of it away and didn’t miss it.

“We should come back,” my wife said that night, and we probably will.

If you’re reviewing a restaurant, it’s best not to be identified by the employees—you want to get the same treatment everyone does. So when a guy came over offering free gelato, I figured I’d been outed. Clearly, my byline had preceded me. But then I heard him make the same pitch to other customers, so I realized the truth: It’s just that kind of place. Friendly. Tasty. Can’t vouch for the women’s restrooms, though.

The Pizza Caffe

7435 Eastern Ave.

(two toppings), $9.95 (three).