I ... I hate you.

As one of the most renowned streets in the best city in the greatest state in one of the top 50 countries in the most inhabitable planet that I’m personally aware of, Brady Street has a little something for everyone.

Lovers of decadent hot dogs, shitty taverns that refuse to adhere to the state’s workplace smoking ordinance, homeless people, and juggling emporiums with rhyming names alike can bide their time in this wonderful 9-block Milwaukee oasis. But fatass drunk assholes with an outside interest in unicycle purchase such as myself aren’t the only ones who can get something from Brady Street. Dirty hippies, too, can imbibe in this Eastside jewel on Milwaukee’s shimmering crown.

At least two (maybe more, but I don’t have time to really think about it) Brady Street cafes cater to lovers of caffeine and laid back atmosphere. One of them, Roshambo, sucks babydicks — not so much their fault, but once, some annoying assfart named “Bix” flapped his stupid face forever while I was trying to play Scrabble like a year ago and I never went back. The other is called “Brewed” and it’s pretty OK in my book.

Brewed is a lot like most non-chain coffee shops in this big, round and unforgiving blue ball we call a planet. A menagerie of wobbly tables and mismatched chairs are crammed in the too-small space. Local art and fliers are tacked to the walls. There are weird nooks and raised areas, hinting that it–the lower level of an old house–probably shouldn’t be legally permitted to exist. And, of course, their are hippies and hipsters and old persons of varying hip health stationed throughout the cafe, pontificating hipply. But that’s fine. Overall, coffee shops are alright. In fact, when I was in high school, I used to hang out all the time at a coffee shop in Neenah that was a lot like Brewed called The Blue Moon. That was also when I planned to wait until marriage before boning anyone. Overall, I was pretty lame, but had the best intentions.

But one thing that The Blue Moon never had that Brewed does is amazing food (and the absence of spider webs/being a front for drug dealing). Included on the tiny cafe’s surprisingly sizable menu are flatbread pizzas ranging between $6.29 and $7.59 — six in all. 400 words since I started this, I’ll now get to the part where I talk about one I had, The Mexican Garden.

THE GOOD: Unlike the traditional “Mexican Garden” (a woman of Latin descent who has a huge bush), this Mexican Garden seem immediately appetizing to me. Have you ever drooled on your boner while shitting yourself based solely on something you were reading? Beyond a specific passage about the knuckleball in “Ball Four” — DON’T JUDGE ME!!! (cries) — this is the only time I can personally remember doing so. Read for yourself…

“A flatbread crust covered with our own black bean spread, cheddar cheese, onion, black olive, jalapeno and our own homemade kitchen salsa.”

The ‘za itself did not fail to mirror the text in its erotic beauty. It was outstanding, lead brilliantly by the generous smattering of black bean spread. The salsa was rich in organic and locally-grown ingredients. And the bitter cheese was countered with the slight zip of jalapeno. It was the perfect melding of components to forge a flawless product… the Mr. 3000 of flatbread pizzas. Oh God. I need to go back.

THE BAD: Being the pathetic creature I am, I tend to be sad when something great is about to end — the abrupt conclusion of Caddy Shack, the moment before my sexual partner’s eighth and final orgasm of our torrid fuck sesh, and the final bites of this pizza. I began the pizza unwilling to acknowledge its eventual end. This loss is the way I imagine a parent feels when giving birth to a severely premature baby. Only worse.

Also, for $6.99, the portions — even when factoring the fact that they’re organic — were a tad light.

TRY: Not hearing a Modest Mouse song in your time there. It’ll be tough to pull off, but you’ll be glad you did. Also, try a flatbread pizza. Duh.

RATING: I got one hand in my pocket (squeezing off while thinking about the pizza I just wrote about) and the other one is givin’ a peace sign. Timely!

Booooo!!!

Pizza and blow jobs are a lot alike. So long as nobody is biting your dick, you’re going to enjoy receiving even the worst of either thing.

The former is proved accurate by Marco’s Pizza (111 E. Forest Hill Ave., Oak Creek). A while back, I gave a pie from the T. Mario’s work-adjacent pizzeria a try. The experience can be summed up by placing one’s palms tightly against one’s lips and making a drawn out sound reminiscent of a wet fart. But since I can’t effectively execute this noise in text, and I know dick about making mp3s, I’ll do the next best thing and write about why Marco’s isn’t very good.

Marco’s, which is too shitty to even think about having a website, sticks out like a penis at an Ani DiFranco concert amongst all the mini malls, the big box superstores and other national franchises dotting the Oak Creek cityscape. Its building looks semi-abandoned, which is always a good feature for a business that produces things that people ingest. But, throwing caution and the fate of our anuses to the wind, Sto Cazzo and I ordered anyway.

THE GOOD: Despite severely bending the term, the circular cheese, pepperoni, sausage and canned mushroom pile we received from Marco’s was, in fact, pizza. And having consumed pizza from gas stations, my public elementary school and The Seymour Fair in my past, I can attest that even things barely qualifying as pizza are still pretty awesome.

Away from the pizza, Marco’s — in desperate attempt to lend its crackerass location more Italian authenticity — employs “De” instead of “the” in its menu, including in their hilariously terrible slogans: “De Best Ingredients Makes De Best Pizza” (which is not even grammatically correct), “For Get De Rest Get De Best” (De Best at not realizing “forget” is one word, that a comma should come after “rest” and that each first letter shouldn’t be capitalized?) and “We May Not Be De Fastest – Just De Best” (There isn’t enough time nor letters in the alphabet for me to appropriately make fun of this one). In all, Marco’s has more slogans (three, funny and stupid) than its pizza has taste (one, bland).

THE BAD: The last slogan didn’t lie. It took forever (or “For Ever” in Marco’s-speak) for our pizza to come. Despite our warning against doing so, they came to the wrong door and I had to walk around our massive building to meet the sonofabitch. Not quite worth the unheard of $2.50 delivery charge, if you ask me. Delivery retardation aside, the overabundance of cheese on this ‘Za-bomination almost certainly added to our hour wait. 

In terms of the pizza itself, the inside pieces were sloppy as fuck. After eating just one gooey center slice, I felt like I seriously needed to use one of those hazmat showering stations that are in high school chemistry labs. It was dreadful. Even less appealing was the sodium level Marco’s brought to an already NaCl-rich foodstuff. Between the Olympic-sized pools of grease, the salt-lick sausage and canned mushrooms (gross), it was an altogether abrasive and messy ordeal… like having to help gut a deer that you, yourself, didn’t shoot. Except you feel fat and like you want to commit suicide after.

TRY: A full pan of lasagna. At $87.95 and with 5 hours of notice needed (pencil in an extra 5 hours for delivery), it’ll have you wondering “Why Didn’t I Make De Lasagna My Self?”

RATING: You’ll regret ordering it, loathe yourself while eating it… but, like me, finish it in your car on the drive home from work. You’ll cry as you polish off the leftovers. But the next day, you’ll awake finding that surviving the experience has somehow strengthened your belief in good pizza and, just maybe, in life as a whole. That said… let’s give it a 3.

I stole the above photo from a more favorable Web review of Marco’s.

The weeks that followed were agonizing — like waiting to open a potato gun-shaped Christmas present from that awesome uncle you have who works with PVC pipe at his job (potato farmer is also an applicable occupation for this analogy). But somehow, much in thanks to fantasy baseball, Internet pornography and drinking to the point of blackout, I managed to stave off an impatience-based hari kari and live to see the beautiful day that Via Downer opened for business.

Those familiar with Transfer will be glad to know that, like the sister pizzeria, Via Downer also uses a wood fire oven, prides itself on using primarily locally-grown organic ingredients, features all 23 of Transfer’s pizzas and is fucking awesome.

THE GOOD: In addition to the above, Via itself is a gorgeous, newly-renovated restaurant in a quiet and underrated neighborhood. In terms of interior, think of a larger Transfer meets Comet (minus the thousands of people waiting to be seated). 

Speaking for the food, where do I begin? My pizza, the “Da Vinci” was a fluffy 12-inch diameter slice of heaven… the Muslim heaven with all the hot snatch. A blend of juicy organic tomatoes, tangy red sauce, the welcomed domination of pesto all sitting atop a warm bed of both feta and asiago cheese — sweet baby Christ, this was a pizza to which one could set his or her watch. I swear on Paul Newman’s grave that if this pizza had a vagina and low enough self esteem to let me, I’d fuck it.

THE BAD: It’s hard to take such a delectable pizza to task, but I have to say that the Da Vinci Ronnie and I had at Transfer months earlier was better. For one, it was bigger, more rigid in the center and had more tomatoes and feta per bite. I chalk some of that up to Via being scantly a fortnight in age, but being aware that it gets better left me feeling a bit disappointed.

Also, the servers, host and manager all stopped to ask me how my pizza was. Even worse, they all timed the question perfectly to when I had just taken a huge bite. I was faced with either mumbling, “hfhutu_mkdlsnn6@lx73nhg76n” with a mouthful of pizza and nodding happily or simply giving a thumbs up. I did both these things. I felt like an asshole. Besides, it should’ve been obvious I loved the fucker by how hard I was going Wolfenstein on the thing.

Lastly, Via’s beer selection is far from impressive and it is fairly expensive. Uhhh… $3.50 for a High Life. Cut-it-out!

TRY: Personally, I can only vouch for the Da Vinci, but the Thai Chicken is on my short list for one to try on my next visit. Overall, I’m sure anything they have is capable of engorging your private parts in a gender appropriate way. Just make sure to get pizza. Otherwise it’s like going to Greece to play mini golf or South Dakota to have an abortion. It just doesn’t make sense.

RATING: More like Via UPPER! (pats self on back).

Rumor (Willis) has it that somewhere along the line, the DeMarinis family was split by a dispute powerful enough to cause the DeMarinis sons — Dom and Phil — to branch out and open their own DeMarinis pizza parlor not but two blocks away from MaMa DeMarinis’. I like to think it was all Jenga-related.

Though family feuds are never a good thing, especially when talking about the TV game show Family Feud, we thought it only fair to give both DeMarinis a try to see if one family’s heart-wrenching rift delivered us the sweet fruits of another bomb-ass Bay View pizza joint. Spoiler: It did.

If you were to give me a slice of both MaMa DeMarinis’ and Dom & Phil DeMarinis’ pizza, I’d first thank you for the wonderfully delicious gift by offering you a sensual massage (no fat chix!). Secondly, I’d have no fucking idea which slice came from where. Pizza-wise, both are served on rectangular baking pans; each are cut into square slices and feature fresh mushrooms; and both are good as He11! Some people are staunch advocates of Dom & Phil’s, while hating MaMa’s. Other’s are all up in MaMa’s shit and don’t like the bros.

Personally, I cast no stones in terms of dually delicious pizza served in old fashioned neighborhood settings. I like them both so much that it’s simply impossible to pick my favorite DeMarinis location. That said, I pick Dom & Phil’s.

THE GOOD: If you want in depth pizza talk, look at my MaMa Demarinis post linked above. I feel it’s nearly identical… apart from Bros DM’s ‘za having better sausage (made in house, by the way). What pushes this location over the edge into my favorite is the location. Not only is there a patio, a significantly more spacious interior and a fully stocked bar, there’s a God damn game room up in this bitch. Noyce! It’s small, but you know the old adage… “A small game room is better than a good day of golf” or something. Plus, they have Friday Fish Fry, which is always a great thing for a restaurant to have.

THE BAD: Their cheese bread kind of sucks choad. Soggy bread with lukewarm cheese. I can do that in my sleep. And I have! Additionally, the restaurant is kind of hard to find if you’re not from Bay View and you’ve never been there before. It’s nestled deep within the confines of the Bermuda Triangle of Great Lakes-adjacent pizza. 

TRY: Get a pint of Leinie’s Nut Brown. When the bartender is filling your glass, turn to a friend and say, “I heard this shit makes you nut brown” loud enough for the barkeep to overhear. Trust me, the reaction will be worth it. Oh yeah, get a sausage and mushroom pizza. Tis’ bonerrific.

RATING: An alleged familial dispute never tasted so good — not including the near-identical MaMa DeMarinis’ down the street.

Besides that, landmarks like the continually steaming manhole outside Solid Gold Gentleman’s Club, the Allen Bradley clock tower and the always delicious Conjito’s serve as apt indicators of Walker’s Point presence to wide-eyed Northwoods hayseeds like myself. But in terms of Pizza Topography, Marchese’s Olive Pit is — bar none — the neighborhood’s highest point of elevation.

Since moving to to the area, people hyped the shit out of Marchese’s. It was like the Avatar of Milwaukee pizza places. Except, unlike Blue Pocahontas, I actually had remote interest in experiencing the Olive Pit (also available in 3D) first hand. Finally, after months of delay, myself, Ronnie and two of his friends paid a visit to this often-recommended Walker’s Point pizzeria. 

The restaurant seems to specialize is white and garlic sauce pizzas as well as pasta dishes. But not being total pussies, we opted for a classic “Red Sauce” pizza. Kind of being pussies though, we went with a “Doc’s Garden” veggie pizza.

THE GOOD: The thin crust pan pizza (which ran about $20) was massive. It took up most of the table and fed all four of us comfortably. Ronnie and I had to make a delectably painful second sweep just to finish it. I’ve gladly paid $5 plus tip for much less pizza in the past. Portions aside, this collection of fresh mushrooms, green peppers, onion, tomatoes and mozzarella was tasty as hell. 

They also have a fully stocked bar with a buttload of booze, domestic brew mainstays, an assortment of micro and craft beers and $2 Blatz every day. You know I had a Blatz, babies.

THE BAD: I’m a sauce-obsessed soul, so I found Marchese’s lumpy, sporadically placed, mozzarella stick marinara dip-like sauce to be a bit lacking. It was good, but I could have used a bit more. Also, the toppings (for being a veggie deluxe, of sorts) seemed a bit sparse too.

However, the portion load was evidently heavy enough on the crust to make the inside slices mega-flimsy and the outside slices almost too tough. It was a mindfreak. A riddle. You know that story with the car crash and the doctors, and it ends up that the doctor is the kid’s mom or whatever? The Doc’s Garden pizza was like the pizza version of that. Weird.

Plus, our beers took for fucking ever to get there. And it wasn’t even busy.

TRY: The large. All large pizzas are about $6 more than the mediums, and nearly twice the size. Also, Olive Pit has vegan and gluten-free options on hand too. I suppose some people might be interested in the vast White and Garlic sauce pizza offerings, but not me. I hath too much pride.

RATING: Anything but the pits.

I once met with a publisher at a coffee haus on Humboldt, I went to a few shows in the neighborhood, bought an $8 pair of grey slacks at ReThreads that leave no questions in regard to the exact contours of my cock’n'balls, and that’s about it.

Apart from those three things, I’ve learned that all the crustpunkers I know live or routinely hang there, Ronnie got mugged in Riverwest a few years back and Lakefront Brewery began there. Basically, I know shit about it. And after my inaugural Riverwest meal at NYPD, something tells me I probably need not investigate it much further.

I was sent to review the rather unimaginatively-named NYPD for a local publication. There, I found a menu equally lacking in creativity. And bullet holes. Confused to whether I ordered up front or sat down and waited to have my order taken, I eventually opted to meekly approach the counter and rattle off my order: An extra large veggie pizza.

THE GOOD: In addition to its ever-present threat of danger, NYPD offers patrons pretty respectable deals all year long. Our 18-inch za — which usually ran $18 — was rang up for $14. I figure it in part to my wearing the aforementioned dickhugger pants, but I later learned it was a coupon that ultimately did the trick.

The pizza itself was huge, and the toppings were generously doled out. Fresh mushrooms lined the pie’s vast expanses, as did the black olives. And the thing was as cheesy as an Edwin McCain ballad.

THE BAD: The real problem was the pile of green pepper and tomato that converged in the middle of the pizza. It left the middle all gross and soupy. I was tempted to slap on a life vest, you know, just in case shit got too intense. Furthermore, it took about 45 minutes to get said kind of shitty pizza.

Speaking of intense, my white bread ass was slightly unnerved to see what looked to be bullet holes in the window beside our booth. I’m all for an element of risk when eating pizza, but usually that involves ordering sauerkraut on half. I’m too young and pathetic to die.

Inside the safety of the already cracked windows is a seemingly 50s-themed joint, like a much worse Bella’s Fat Cat or one of those novelty McDonald’s.

TRY: Beats me. Though the P and D in the acronym mean “Pizza” and “Delivery,” NYPD offers all sorts of menu items beyond specialty pizzas. Wings, pasta, fish, chicken, salads, a myriad of fried appetizers and more are all on hand — all for fairly cheap. If you live in Riverwest, or have a website similar to Doctors of Za (Orthopedic Surgeons of Fish Fry? Gynecologists of Gyros?), you’ll find something on NYPD’s menu to order and subsequently not be particularly impressed with.

RATING: NYPD blew.

Zaffiro’s straight up owns the Eastside (motive for burning down Pizza Man?). Crisp offers douchetanks tasty slices and club music at bar time — same goes for Pizza Shuttle (minus the club music and plus red Gatorade in the soda fountain). Even Zayna’s is tasked with serving up hot za, fried corn nuggets and Lo-Carb Monster to drunken local pariahs.

Then there’s Meglio Pizzeria, tucked away down Humboldt Avenue in, what pretty much looks like, a house near the banks of the ever-brown, used-Band Aid strewn Milwaukee River. Meglio’s less-than-unshitty location combined with its fairly truant MKE pizza presence and overriding awkwardness makes it the Daniel Baldwin of Eastside pizza joints. Or was it Billy Baldwin? See what I mean!?!

After a weekend bender that saw Ronnie and I tying on a Bloody Mary brunch buzz, getting schooled by a band of butch lesbians at free pool, Ronnie needing a nap like a bitch, me puking in The Roman Coin’s bathroom like even more of a bitch, drinking in a record store and watching two old men have a heated argument at Bruno’s, Meglio seemed like a great idea… mostly because we hadn’t yet reviewed it for the site. We stumbled the necessary blocks off Brady and — reaching the glorified model home that was Meglio’s — stepped inside to squelch our unparalleled daydrunk hunger.

THE GOOD: Since it’s nestled squarely within a residential neighborhood and a (currently) closed bridge, there was literally no wait to place an order and be seated. With Ronnie being a vegetarian, we opted for a mushroom pizza. I shuffled through the free records I got with my recent Record Store Day purchase (all shitty) and regaled my counterpart with heroic tales of embarrassing public puking for what seemed like 10 minutes before our pizza arrived.

It seemed to be a perfect hybrid of thick crust fluffiness and thin crust crisp/retention. I think it was about $13 for a large, and was worth the cost. It was pretty big and I’ve seen worse topping portions. If you’re into fresh mushrooms (which you should be), Meglio is on top of that shit. The sauce was on par with many of the other mid- to upper-eschalon Brew City pie purveyors.

It was good enough that Ronnie dropped a slice on the ground (face down) and still ate it. Then again, he still seemed pretty toasty when that happened.

Except much smaller and with slightly better pizza.

THE BAD: I’ve touched on the model home-type appearance. As insignificant as that may be, I found myself both put off an amazed that a pizza place could exist in what looked to be one part Northwoods candle shop(pe?) and another part shittier-looking Bluth house from Arrested Development. It’s hard to justify stairs and a bannister in a 20-capacity restaurant.

Beyond that, the pizza was far from amazing, even compared to many of the previously-named Brady-adjacent pizzerias. And their Diet Dew was flat. In all, pretty average.

TRY: Meglio’s saving grace is its affiliation to nearby Lakefront Brewery. If you ever find yourself hankering for a slice while on the Lakefront tour (which is awesome, btw… and this comes from a hater of brewery tours), Meglio is the official pizza provider for the hometown brewery. In such a situation, feel inclined to imbibe. Great beer (except Local Acre and Lakefront IPA… GUH!) and OK pizza – what could be better? Well, I suppose great beer and great pizza, but it was rhetorical, dick.

RATING: Middle of the road for Milwaukee, but better than anything you’ll ever get from Franklin.

"I got kids all over town!"

It’s difficult to recognize pleasure without first experiencing pain. People everywhere (except Michigan) brave the highways each morning to drive to a jobs they hate, just so they can support their lifestyles and provide security for loved ones. Any guy who’s ever seen a Hugh Grant movie probably did it for the Hanj (or better) he assumed may follow said sacrifice.

And in the case of Milwaukee’s newest place of pizza pie purveyance, Crisp Pizzabar & Lounge, one of the area’s better and higher quality wood fire pizzas in Milwaukee comes with the attached toll of being housed within one of the most overtly douchebaggish restaurant concepts ever.

Having waited for Crisp to open for about four months, I was on that joint faster than an Usain Bolt bowel movement when it opened two weeks ago. Knowing that it was the type of place that merges all lowercase words together to establish a presumably sheik identity, I kind of knew what I was getting into in terms of location, decor clientele. But the one surprising element of Crisp was its cum-inducing blend of baked edibles that management modestly called “pizza.”

THE GOOD: Since the restaurant just opened and only had select menu items available, I opted for a slice from a pizza that was fresh out the oven. It was a decadent intermingling of roasted red peppers, sausage, spiced tomato sauce and both fresh mozzarella and goat cheese. Oh, the sweetness of the peppers! The zestiness of the Italian sausage and (almost spicy) sauce! The salty kiss of mozzarella and that bitter bitch, Goat Cheese once again stealing the show. I would honestly contemplate eating a Taco Bell shrimp taco if it meant I could get just another bite of this wondrous slice.

But the unsung hero was the soft, velvety, floury Jesus towel those ingredients perched upon. The MF crust. I mean, I never understood why middle schoolers would ever play that game where dudes circle jerk on a cracker and the last dude to brick has to eat it. But if they used Crisp’s crust instead of the cracker … I’m just saying it would make more sense to me.

Crisp also offers a shitload of toppings that aren’t always seen in pizzerias… things like egg, nuts, lamb, truffle oil and whatever the fuck arugula is.

THE BAD: Everything else. The location (an awesome bi-level bar in the heart of Brady Street) is completely wasted with wannabe hip interior decor. Lame ass house music and featured DJs thud backbeats and dramatic loops directly into the customer’s brain stem, instantly killing their ability to produce sperm. And the customer base is as follows: Yuppies on lunch, bottom of the barrel assclowns adorning Ed Hardy/Remetee shirts, losers who write for barely-read pizza review Web sites.

This place should probably gets its head out of its ass and realize it’s located in Milwaukee “we don’t have a professional hockey team, but I bet we’ll get a Jamba Juice soon” Wisconsin and not Paris, Milan, New York or anywhere else with at least a semblance of style. Plus the food is kind of expensive. Probably to fund the house DJ’s meth habit.

TRY: A slice. At $5 per, it’s pretty big and — factoring in the quality and amount of toppings — worth it. Otherwise the personal pizzas run $10 and the large za (choice of three toppings) is $20. Avoid everything else. Spicy Tomato Basil Bisque?!? What is this, somewhere remotely cultured? As if, Crisp.

RATING: The food is good enough to endure everything else about it.

Sometimes you run out of fun things to do and end up in your girlfriend’s bed while she’s at work trying to figure out something to do besides look at porn. Man of The Year was doing the same sans girlfriend’s bed (or girlfriend for that matter) so we decided to tap an area of Milwaukee seldom visited by any of the DoZ. Growing up on the south side of Milwaukee, 27th street holds many a fond memory for me. My first bike was from the Toys R Us on 27th, my first car was purchased at Braeger Chevrolet, my mom ran a catering business that was located on 27th, and my first Target experiences were at the Target on 27th. A memorable street to say the least. Now, for some reason my parents never got me hip to Ned’s Pizza, but I really wish they would have.

Upon walking in the door of Ned’s you’re greeted with a photoshopped picture of Brett Favre that says “Drama Queen” and a clock that looks like a pizza. I already knew I was going to love it here. The inside of Ned’s feels like 27th street. It has some serious south side character. MoTY stated that he “would never bring a date here.” I couldn’t disagree more and this is most likely why he is single. We seated ourselves and were brought menus quickly. Directly in the middle at the top of the inside of the menu “MILWAUKEE’S BEST THIN CRUST PIZZA” is boldly displayed. Big talk. I’ll be the judge of that.

Seriously.

Ned’s offers a fairly basic pizza menu. No pesto, goat cheese, or spinach here. The one thing that sets them apart from almost every other pizza joint in the city/state is that they have pickles as topping. It is even a main ingredient on one of their specialty pizzas, the Triple “P” (Cheese, Pepperoni, Pepperoncini, and Pickles). Our waitress also highly recommends the Triple P. I’ve only tasted pickles done correctly once on a pizza (Pizza Shuttle) so I had to try. MoTY is afraid of pickles so we got them only on half. Ned’s also has a sandwich, appetizer, and dessert menu. On top of all that they also offer “Ned’s Pizza Parbakes.” From the website: “A Ned’s Pizza Parbake is a pizza prepared by us for you to take home and bake yourself.”

Loaded like Man of The Year with a bottle of Jack

The Good: The pizza came out LOADED with toppings (see pic). The sauce and cheese were great. Man of The Year couldn’t stress enough how much he loved the cheese to sauce ratio. The sauce had a perfect hint of sweetness to it that compliments the za nicely. The crust was thin and crispy. The boast of “MILWAUKEE’S BEST THIN CRUST PIZZA” is not as far fetched as most would think. I’m not stating that it is but I’m going on record saying that it is definitely up there. Ned, after all, has been doing this since 1969.

CHEESE TO SAUCE RATIO!

Ned’s Pizza is the only other pizza place I’ve been to that knows how to do pickles right on a pizza. Ned’s, actually, does it the best. As far as this doctor is concerned Ned is killing it in the pizza game. It definitely jumped into the top of my short list of great pizza places. A welcome surprise in a sea of mediocrity, I consider Ned’s to have the S 27th St. area pizza scene on lock and a pillar in the Milwaukee pizza community.

The Bad: I couldn’t think of one bad thing about Ned’s. The waitstaff was extremely friendly, the prices are beyond fair, and there was no wait for lunch on a Saturday.

Try: I urge you to go to Ned’s and get the Triple P as soon as possible. It was fantastic. I also recommend trying a Parbake. I will be soon. Oh… and if you try the wings let me know how they are.

Rating: A FAVORITE