Please do not dismiss this feature because I am not Italian. Rest assured, I have travelled to Italy and consumed enough pizza there to kill a small horse. I also live with a man who is a second generation Italian American. And thusly, for the past four years, I have been subjected to and thus become certifiably familiar with every minor detail that goes into recognizing (and to a certain extent, preparing) the perfect pizza. Also as a result of my pizza guru associations, I am forbidden from eating at, and have learned to spit on, national pizza chains, such as Pizza Hut, Dominoes, Papa John’s, Papa Gino’s, and anything else you may have survived on during college. (And needless to say, DiGiorno’s is a no-no.) My ever-expanding muffin top truly hopes that these qualifications will encourage you, dear reader, to read on. Otherwise, I might as well start doing sit-ups and switch to skim milk mozzarella (a contradiction in terms).

In case you’re a hermit, I’ll begin with the obligatory note that Italians make up the second largest ethnic group in Boston, subsequent to the Irish. The North End is soaked in Italian culture, and the influential presence of the Italian-American community has spread throughout the city as well as the surrounding suburbs. As a result, Boston is a pizza lover’s playground, and I truly believe that the little city with a big ego can stand on its own alongside the world renowned pizza capitals of New York, Philly, and Chicago.

So let’s throw some dough in the oven and see what comes out, shall we?  

Our pizza tour of Boston shall commence appropriately in the North End, Boston’s Little Italy. The most well-known in the profusion of pizza parlors of this neighborhood is, without a doubt, Pizzeria Regina. The first I heard of this deep-rooted institution was on the Travel Channel, long before I moved to New England. Established in 1926, Regina’s still occupies its original location at 11 ½ Thacher Street, and maintains the stripped-down look of early American pizzerias, with wooden booths and walls covered in framed photos of local and national celebrities enjoying the product. There is almost certainly a line outside the building on weekends and during the weekday lunch hour. And the staff maintains the typical Bostonian gruff that is so desperately needed in today’s hospitality industry.

Get to the pies, already! Regina’s pizza is characteristic of brick-oven pizzas, with a crisp outer crust that becomes chewier as you chomp. I recommend ordering it well done to achieve their signature toasted/burnt cornmeal consistency. The cheese situation tends to veer into the greasy category, but its flavor will reassure you that you’re not eating shitty, congealed industrial cheese. Their sauce is noteworthy, but not outstanding. The tomato flavor definitely shines through, rather than being diluted with “Italian seasonings,” but it’s not really worth savoring in your mouth. (Regina’s commercials boast that they import their tomatoes from California to give it that “special flavor.” But I think it has more to do with the fact that California is the leading producer of all tomatoes in the United States. Which is not nearly as exciting.) Available toppings are pretty standard, save for their homemade sausage. But the draw of Regina’s pizza is more the way it’s cooked rather than what’s actually on it. The one exception to this generalization is the Napoletana, which is an anchovy lover’s delight, heavy on the anchovy filets, with capers, pecorino Romano, garlic, and spicy oil. The waitress will probably look at you strangely when you order it, and will then ask you if you’re sure that’s what you want. That is a reasonable question, because you can smell this pie from a mile away, and you better be damn sure you’re gonna eat it. But if anchovies are your thing, then this is for you. Salty and stinky and salty. On the whole, I’d say that, as a resident, you really don’t need to eat Regina pizza more than once a year. But if you are partial to the Napoletana, I’ll make an exception.

The problem with Regina’s is that it knows it’s famous, and has sold out considerably because of it (which is probably why I saw it on the Travel Channel). They’ve got a dozen locations in Massachusetts (including South Station), as well as in three other states. You can even order them for your office lunch meeting through overpriced third party delivery companies. But, as is so often the case with mom and pop joints that go corporate, their quality does not warrant such wide distribution. Regina’s is kind of like the Dane Cook of pizza. It used to be good, but now it’s just lame, obnoxious, and in your face all the time.

Now that we’ve got Regina’s out of the way, we can move on to the real meat of Boston pizza. And to do that, we’re going straight to the antithesis of Regina’s: Santarpio’s in Eastie. The location alone should impart that Santarpio’s pizza is intended only for those prepared to seek it out: a stone’s throw from the Airport T stop, practically under the shadow of the route 1A underpass and the Sumner Tunnel entrance. And the interior is pretty much what you’d expect from such a locality: wood paneled walls adorned with boxing memorabilia, limited sunlight, gruff but loveable waitresses who address you as Hon’. It has been accurately described by many locals as “your grandpa’s basement bar.” If you’re not into irony, don’t worry: the pizza will atone for the journey. The crust is similar to Regina’s, but heavy on the cornmeal and less stiff. The cheese is described as “Italian cheese,” which might seem a little shady, but just be thankful the word “product” does not appear at the end of it. Santarpio’s sauce has a homemade taste to it, but bring some gum because garlic is the heavy hitter. Toppings are standard and limited--a good thing, as it demonstrates confidence in the product. It’s your basic tomato and cheese pie, best enjoyed in its simplest form.

The other draw of Santarpio’s is their charcoal barbecue pit, featuring homemade sausage and lamb skewers served with hot cherry peppers and a fresh hunk of Italian bread. Icing on an already delicious cake . . . or, uh, pie.

As long as we’re on the subject of traditional pizza, we’ll head back over to the North End (hope you charged up your CharlieCard!) to Galleria Umberto for the hands-down best Sicilian style pizza in the land. Galleria Umberto is not, and will never be, the whore that Regina’s has become, but they sure do make their pizza hard to get. Open Monday to Friday (and some Saturdays) from 11 a.m. until the dough runs out, this below-the-radar outfit somehow has lines out the door by noon. Why? Thick, buttery crust surrounding lovingly prepared pies cooked on large trays and sliced when served. And no toppings but sauce and cheese. That alone waves the sauce colored flag for good pizza. With slices going for $1.35, you’ll feel fuller after lunch here than anywhere else on our tour. This is partly due to the thickness inherent to Sicilian pizza, but also because of the addictive Italian “snacks” Galleria Umberto also serves: arancinis (deep fried balls of rice, stuffed with brisket-type meat, cheese, and peas), panzarotti (fried mashed potatoes), panini, calzones, AND beer and wine served in little plastic cups. If you’re a New Yorker who’s grown up on Di Fara’s or Spumoni Gardens’ Sicilian, Galleria Umberto’s take may not quite do it for you. But thousands of loyal Bostonians will scarf down as much as they can, because up here, it just doesn’t get any better.

So that’s the traditional “pizza-as-it-should-be” portion of the tour. We will now move to pizza nouveau: gourmet. Nothing against the traditional school, but it speaks volumes that what gets classified as “gourmet” pizza in America is actually “normal” pizza in Italy: cracker thin crust, high quality ingredients, made fresh. This phenomenon probably also lends itself to our high obesity rates, but that’s another story.

There are three awesome gourmet pizza places in Boston: Cambridge 1 in Harvard Square, Emma’s in Kendall Square, and Figs in Beacon Hill. Some locals describe Cambridge 1 as “trendy,” but I find the ambiance more comparable to a brew pub than a club (which is what I think of when I hear the word “trendy”): stripped down, dark wood-laden space, mostly populated with booths sporting tables not unlike those in high school chemistry classes. There’s a flat screen or two, if you’d like to catch the game without screaming at the players who can’t hear you. Cambridge 1 gets pretty packed on the weekends, so I suggest going during off-peak hours to get the most out of your visit. Pies are charcoal grilled with paper-thin crusts, which are pleasant not only from the texture, but because thinner crust means you can cram more of it down your gullet. Cambridge 1 pizzas come in your choice of half or full size. Unless you’re a toddler, a half size is not going to fill you up. But it is a handy option if you can’t narrow down your choices. And that is a tough decision to make, because all of Cambridge 1 pizzas are good. In this case, the draw of the pizza is not only for the way it’s cooked, but for what’s actually on it as well. Maybe Cambridge 1 gets the snob label because it uses ingredients only familiar to food snobs (read: foodies): Manchego cheese, garden sorrel, chèvre, sopressata. But considering they don’t charge any more for a whole pie than the other places I’ve mentioned, there’s really no need to resort to name-calling here. Just shut up and eat your deliciously fresh pizza.

Unlike the sleek space of Cambridge 1, Emma’s operates from a much cozier, homey setting, with bright colors and wooden kitchen chairs like the kind your Nonna would have. While Cambridge 1 works off of a set list of about a dozen different pies, Emma’s lets you design your own (or choose from their list of suggested pizzas), with toppings ranging from the basics to ingredients like thyme roasted mushrooms, capers, gorgonzola, scallions, and dried cranberries. Really, though, the only noticeable differences between Cambridge 1 and Emma’s are the ambiance and the toppings. But that’s not a bad thing. (Would anyone actually complain about having more than one good spot to get superior thin crusted pizza in their city? Besides masochists, that is.)

Wet blankets of gourmet pizza have no excuse for penalizing Fig’s for its poshness, because this is a Todd English restaurant, so they should know what they’re getting into right off the bat . . . And now that the naysayers are gone, I can let you in on the big secret that, despite it’s affiliation with the Clark Kent-lookalike chef who operates some very high-end restaurants, Fig’s pizza is actually not any more expensive than anywhere else on this tour. But just the same, it’s worth every penny, with perfectly crisp, crunchy crusts (you can also get a thicker New Haven style), and an awesome selection of fresh toppings. The featured styles allow for some creativity of combinations by the chef, such as the fried calamari pizza (with crispy calamari, tomato sauce, arugula, hot peppers, and lemon aioli). But if you’re looking for unorthodox ingredients, Emma’s is still your best bet. Fig’s isn’t trying to hook in the foodie snobs. Ol’ Todd is just trying to illustrate that good pizza doesn’t need to turn heads; it just needs to tickle tummies.

Stone Hearth Pizza Co., new of Porter Square, is not quite gourmet, but definitely puts enough care and talent into their pies to make them worth mentioning. Crusts are pretty thin, but still chewy. They’re good Neapolitan pizza with a conscience, sticking to organic and locally produced, sustainable ingredients. Go for the Peperonata, with braised red and yellow peppers, onion, rosemary, tomatoes, and red wine vinegar, topped with fontina and Parmesan.

Another not-quite-gourmet but still awesome Neapolitan joint is Upper Crust. I believe the actual pizza from Upper Crust more than qualifies as gourmet, but I also believe that having 13 locations makes you a chain and negates the term gourmet. But Upper Crust is almost like having your cake and eating it, too: their décor is very simple with white walls and ceilings covered in hanging pizza pans, giving it a kind of cool po-mo minimalist look. And there seem to be international soccer games playing on every television at every location. So you get the comfort of a casual atmosphere combined with damn near perfect crispy crusts and a nice array of toppings. I recommend the Uncommon (with bacon, fresh pineapple and jalapeño peppers) if you’re in the mood for something different.

We’re almost at the end of our tour, but I’ve left the best for last: my favorite, Penguin Pizza in the South End. The crust is thin, but Neapolitan, so it also maintains its chewiness. The toppings range from the usual to the unusual (ie, duck confit, smoked salmon, leeks, and feta). Oh, and they have over 250 beers, with about 20 on tap. So there’s a definite pizza ‘n beer vibe going on, making it plenty casual. And the fact that it’s in Northeastern University territory really allows you to let your hair down. (Keep it out of my pie, though!) But I really can’t explain exactly what it is about Penguin’s pizza that makes me love it the most. Somehow they just manage to make the crust chewy enough to hold, but thin enough to allow for the consumption of innumerable slices, with the perfect sauce and just the right amount of cheese. I just can’t stop eating it or thinking about it. All I know is that when I take that first bite, I know that this is exactly what I want when somebody says, “Hey, let’s get a pizza.”