Papa‘s Tomato Pies: a slice of pizza Americana greatness in world-famous Robbinsville New Jersey

Robbinsville is not on your radar. You’ve never been there. And if you go there, there’s no reason to look at that little shopping center off Main Street and say, “Oh, yeah! There’s some amazing pizza in there!“
 
But there it is: Papa’s Tomato Pies.
 
Crunchy, crispy, cheese and tomato goodness.
 
And yes, it’s in New Jersey.
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Let’s first admit a disappointing fact: people love to piss on the Garden State. That the state license plate is the color of cloudy urine probably doesn’t help.
 
But mighty little New Jersey is as serious about its pizza as some of the big, important pizza cities, like Philly, New Haven and New York.
 
And the Jersey Tomato Pie is most authoritatively represented in Robbinsville for its historical cred.
 
If you’re interested in pizza history, in legacy pizzerias, and in having a tantalizing taste of a pizza that inspires your own pizza making, you want to visit Robbinsville.
 
 
Papa's Tomato Pies in Robbinsville is the nation’s oldest family-owned restaurant.
 
Opened by Giuseppe “Joe” Papa in 1912, Papa’s is also the nation’s longest continuously-operating pizzeria. (Lombardi’s in New York opened in 1905, but was also closed from 1984 to 1994 before being reopened by new management.)
 
Originally based in Trenton, Papa’s Tomato Pies is presently run by Nick Azzaro, Giuseppe Papa’s grandson.
 
When you go inside Papa’s, you get the full-on, low-key, mauve-upholstered booths, BYOB signage, scratching-your-head-and-wondering-if-this-is-the-right-place effect. 
 
The menus have high mileage, the place is not fancy, and nothing about any of it generates great expectations.
 
It’s so good.
 
When The Fabulous Honey Parker and I came inside at 2:30 on Wednesday afternoon, lunch hour was past. The dining room wasn’t even one-quarter full. And the few diners there represented a wide range of ages, ethnicities and income levels.
 
 
Presumably, they were all there for the same fantastic thing: the glory of Tomato Pie.
 
The Jersey Tomato Pie is one of those famous regional variations that has its ardent fans. These are the kind of people who get wistful when they reminisce about the pizza, and they'll talk about the Papa family almost as if they were related.
 
I happened to ask our server, “Are you family?“ Because really, she looked like she might be.
 
She replied, “Honorary. Been here way too long.“
 
She was a small woman of a certain age, a twinkle in her eye, a strong demeanor, a lot of tattoos, and a ready laugh. We liked her immediately. We also have a feeling she knows how to stop a fight. This is, after all, the Garden State.
 
 
We ordered a small cheese pizza—and learned it was a common newbie mistake.
 
Our server had her patter down. “I’m just going to point out, the large is only one dollar more.” She also said something about people always being able to finish it all in spite of themselves. (There’s always room for pizza.)
 
Honey and I both realized we would be idiots to not upgrade. We ordered the large.
 
And we waited.
 
I took photos of the menu.
 
I read Honey passages from a 1964 issue of The Trentonian newspaper which, as far as you know, was not on the wall in the men’s room. (I snapped photos. I did not remove it from the wall.) In case you’re interested, Dr. Strangelove was in theaters, President Johnson’s glasses were causing a fashion stir, and there was talk of the Washington Senators “rising from the American League cellar.”
 
Finally, after several more excruciating minutes laden with pizza anticipation, our Tomato Pie arrived.
 
 
Hello, gloriously crispy crunchy pizza of my illicit dreams.
 
Over-exaggeration? Perhaps. Nonetheless, it was mighty fine.
 
The thin crust was baked to an almost cracker-like finish, brown on the bottom, and crisp and chewy around the cornicione, which had been drizzled with olive oil before baking. (There would be no bones left from this baby.)
 
If you’re unfamiliar, the “big difference” with Tomato Pie is that the cheese goes down first, then the tomatoes go on top.
 
Why?
 
Because it’s a celebration of the Garden State’s glorious tomato product.
 
Yes, folks love to ridicule the Garden State moniker. “Ha-ha! The Garden State! More like the chemical dumping-ground state! What exit?”
 
(Just BTW, when someone says they’re from New Jersey, never reply with, “What exit?” unless you desire scorn and derision, along with a possible slice of knuckle pizza.)
 
 
Small but mighty New Jersey comes by its Garden State moniker honestly and aggressively.
 
Dinky little New Jersey is the fifth smallest state by land area.

For an idea of scale, the smallest state is Rhode Island. 

The sixth smallest state is Massachusetts. 

And in New Jersey, the Garden State (so called because of its fertile soil), agriculture is a $1.1 billion industry.
 
According to state government figures, there are over 9,000 farms totaling 734,000 acres producing $354 million in fruit and vegetables.
 
 
And $48 million of that total is claimed by the lusty tomato.  
 
It might surprise you to know that Jersey tomatoes are considered among the finest around.
 
So it’s only natural that somewhere along the way, tomatoes would hog the spotlight. (Jersey also has a $24 billion dairy industry. Hello, Garden State mozzarella!)
 
New Jersey is a farm state, pure and simple. Ag matters. And the Jersey Fresh tomato is just as grand as many others. (Look out, DOP San Marzano!)
 
The Italians who created the Jersey Tomato Pie happened to love and respect their ingredients, and this particular style of pizza is a show-off for the tomato.
 
 
A year ago at this time, Honey and I were an hour west of Papa’s in King of Prussia, PA.
 
We were scarfing down big, cheesy, juicy slices at King Of Pizza, a famous pizzeria from Honey’s youth. The pizza was much closer to the classic New York style, with lots of cheese and a big presentation.
 
The tomato was a secondary player.
 
The Tomato Pie at Papa’s is more structured than King Of Pizza. There’s less cheese, more focus on the tomato, and much more crispy crunch.
 
When our Tomato Pie arrived, it did so with as little fanfare as most pizzas: on an aluminum tray without brass accompaniment.
 
We each grabbed a slice, took a bite, and said “Wow. That’s good.“
 
 
Verdict: Worth The Detour.
 
Glad we did it.
 
And glad we got to experience the environment at Papa’s. I’ve always said that pizza is people. And the people at Papa’s did not disappoint.

There was, of course, our glorious server. 
 
In the booth next to us, a 70-something foodie couple was happy and vocal about this particular pizza joy.
 
Across the room, the Hispanic family of nine seemed equally content to be there, waiting in quiet anticipation of pending pizza bliss. (Well, except for one woman who looked mad, but who knows what was going on with her? Maybe she wanted Chinese and got outvoted.)
 
At the other end of the room, the old white guys in fishing clothes were casual and reserved in their jovial enjoyments of Tomato Pie.
 
 
Everyone was there, ready to get their pizza on in little Robbinsville, New Jersey.
 
They had myriad options around them (it is New Jersey, after all) and chose a century-old immigrant success story from a time when the affordable car was the Ford Model T, when “pizza pie” was a novelty, and when free pizza delivery by Domino’s wasn’t even a glimmer in Papa John’s eye.
 
When Papa’s Tomato Pies was founded, the President of the United States had a PhD in Political Science & History from Johns Hopkins. He had served as President of Princeton University and Governor of New Jersey before being elected to lead the country. I’m pretty sure that his platform did not include pizza, as most Americans had never even heard of it. How things have changed. 
 
 
The Tomato Pie at Papa’s is simple, just like the era from which it hails.
 
If you’re in the area, it’s worth the drive back in time for a taste of pizza history.
 
And if you’re like me, and you enjoy trying to recreate beloved pizza styles, Papa’s Tomato Pies is an inspiration.
 
Tonight, in the wilds of Egg Harbor Township in a strange oven, I’ll be taking a stab at replicating it. I’ll let you know how it goes.
 
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