A Toss Up

However, I can go for long periods without desiring the ubiquitous food first made popular by American soldiers returning from duty in World War II-era Italy; they'd developed a fondness for that sexy "pie" of baked flatbread topped with tomatoes (or marinara) and cheese. Blame those hungry GIs for creating an incredible U.S. industry: More than 3 billion pizzas are sold in the United States every year, according to the Kansas Wheat Commission, which makes a lot of the flour that goes into the crusts tossed by the big chains as well as the little neighborhood joints.

The idea of a cozy little neighborhood pizzeria — with a wood-burning oven, hand-tossed dough, a decent glass of Chianti and a laid-back ambience — was the inspiration for chef Rob Dalzell's Pizza Bella.

Best known for the sophisticated bistro 1924 Main and for Souperman, a casual Crossroads soup shop, Dalzell decided to go into the upscale-pizza business after downtown developer Brad Nicholson showed him a vacant space at 1810 Baltimore — an unassuming one-story brick building with big plate-glass windows. The El Dorado architectural firm helped Dalzell transform the inside into a surprisingly chic 50-seat dining room with a painted concrete floor, slatted wooden walls, groovy lipstick-red plastic chairs and a tiny bar.

I heard raves about the place and was eager to see what all the fuss was about. But before we even took a seat at one of the plain wooden tables, I confessed to my friends Bob, Lillis and Ned that even though I was fond of pizza, it fell into the category of dishes I crave only a couple of times a year — like waffles, hot dogs and prime rib. When I do crave hot dogs, waffles and pizza, I absolutely have to have them right away. But for most of the year, I never even think about them.

Bob and Ned, however, fall into the fanatic camp. They have distinct pizza preferences, which they made abundantly clear as they looked over Pizza Bella's menu. Ned went into a near rapture about some new deep-dish Pizza Hut creation, and Bob insisted that the best pizza in town was at Papa Keno's, even if the servers at its midtown location seem to be perpetually stoned.

"The pizza is still delicious," Bob said. "And they have the best salads."

I kept out of that argument. I'm just not passionate about a dish that another friend of mine, a personal trainer, dismisses as "baked fat."

The weather that night was snowy and cold, and the dining room wasn't very busy — which turned out to be a good thing because the only waitress, wearing a man's jacket several sizes too small for her body, wasn't exactly a model server. She was sweet as sugar, but Ned (a veteran waiter) was ready to scream when he noted that the martini he ordered sat at the bar for what felt like ages. When the waitress finally brought it over, he scolded her: "Honey, I think the vodka evaporated a half-hour ago."

Before tackling a couple of pies, we sampled a few small-plate items, all served in dainty square bowls. Shellfish-loving Bob and Lillis didn't care for the black mussels and fennel sausage in a punchy crushed tomato sauce, but Ned loved them. I only dipped a fragile crostini into the sauce because I was much more interested in the next mini-dish: a mound of sliced, roasted fingerling potatoes tossed with oyster mushrooms and leeks. The tiny portion wasn't easy to share, but we all got enough of a taste to agree that it was probably the best item on the antipasto list. None of us were crazy about the pâté-like potted pork, which was surprisingly bland, but we admired the artful presentation: It was served with splinters of tart green apple and celery root.

The most interesting debate began when our two pizzas arrived, puffy and hot from one of two 700-degree, oak-burning, Italian-made ovens. Dalzell's rustic creations are visually beautiful: The flatbreadlike crust is curvy and thick on the ends, thin and delicate at the center. Like most of the pizzas here, the margherita pie and chorizo pie we ordered were modestly topped with the featured ingredients — gooey, cheesy pizzas, they ain't.