The superb grandma slice at Louie's—light, not too thick, nice and airy and crisp—is an example of why it pays not to be too strict about categorizing and nomenclature.

For the longest time, I mistakenly believed that a grandma was simply a "thinner Sicilian," one that typically had a lot of garlic (but sometimes not) and that often had the sauce painted on in diagonal stripes (but not always). But Scott set me straight a while ago, explaining that a grandma's dough is pressed out into its rectangular pan, topped, and then baked immediately, while a Sicilian dough is left to rise, or "proof," in the pan before it's topped and baked. (At L&B, they actually top it with cheese and sauce and then let it proof.)

Per Scott's definition, the star of the show at Louie's Pizzeria is technically a Sicilian, since it proofs in the pan. Moreover, it's an upside-down Sicilian, because the cheese (fresh mozzarella, in this case) goes on first, covered by an ample amount of crushed plum tomatoes seasoned with lots of garlic, basil, and Pecorino Romano.

Even if you don't remember these details, just remember to get the grandma at Louie's. The regular slice is perfectly fine; better than average, really, and I'd be happy to order it if it were my local and we needed round pies for some reason. But it's just not in the same universe as the grandma there.

What's more, Louie's embodies the very notion of the Beloved Neighborhood Fave, which is why it's at the top of this category and not in alphabetical order, like we've done elsewhere.

Even though we believe we're in the middle of a pizza renaissance, and even though a lot of pie-makers may be turning out the most technically well-crafted pizzas we've seen in a generation, one thing that seems to be in short supply is a form of genuine hospitality, something that isn't part of a self-conscious "strategy" designed to wow you. You might not notice the difference until you finally get your butt to a place like Louie's.

From the outside, it's an unassuming place, which, truth be told, is part of the reason I initially hadn't bothered to check it out. It was neither knowingly hip-looking like Scarr's, nor was it charmingly old-school like J&V. Step inside, though, and you're greeted immediately and enthusiastically by Louie. If he doesn't know you, he introduces himself (though he declined to disclose his last name for this story). The people cycling in and out all seem to be regulars—if they're not, you wouldn't know it from the way Louie chitchats with them.

The customers are a diverse lot—this is Queens, after all, on the border of Jackson Heights and Elmhurst. But more than just the racial diversity you'd expect, you've got people from seemingly all walks of life. There are the cops—it is very cop-heavy—picking up dinner for themselves and colleagues. There's staff from Elmhurst Hospital across the street. There's a bougie-looking dad and son, plus a large multigenerational family there for the non-pizza food (which I understand is also quite good).

Over the course of three consecutive evenings there, I saw several of the same faces, all of them bantering with Louie and often with one another. Louie's is a community hub. It's more than just a place you go to collect a photo for your Instagram feed—though, admittedly, those grandma slices translate to mega likes.

Are non-Queensers going to rush out here from other boroughs? Probably not. As fantastic as the grandma is, the place is a schlep if you don't live in the area, and you can probably find a slice just as fulfilling, in one way or another, closer to home. But if you live nearby, you know the qualities that bring you to a place like Louie's—or to Delmar in Brooklyn, or Nunzio's on Staten Island, or Sal & Carmine on the Upper West Side—and you advocate loudly for your spot.

That is what we mean by Beloved Neighborhood Faves. Here are some more—in merciful brevity.

—  Adam Kuban

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