Barboncino is yet another of the wood-burning, Naples-aping pizzerias that have lately covered certain parts of the city like so much melted mozzarella. I can see why restaurateurs love these places: The pies are tiny and twice as expensive ounce for ounce as those at the city's old-fashioned neighborhood pizzerias. Wines and beers sold at premium prices are part of the package. These upstarts often exhibit an icy pretentiousness that's out of place with the democratic ideals pizza represents. Some have even invited representatives of Italian organizations here to "certify" their pizzas as genuine. Screw 'em! New York is nobody's pizza colony. So I was skeptical when a friend raved about a new wood-oven parlor that recently opened near her apartment in Crown Heights. The nabe was, not long ago, mainly Caribbean and West African. In fact, on the same block stands one of the city's best West African restaurants, Fatima, a Guinean spot selling spicy meat-and-leaf-vegetable stews ladled over rice. That place is comfy and well lit, sporting mismatched chairs and tables where knots of men kibitz about business and news from back home. By contrast, Barboncino reeks of upscale hauteur. There's scant signage outside. Inside, you'll find a darkened warren of wood-clad rooms on two levels, lit by the flicker of votive candles. The benches are hard and backless, and the place feels like a house of worship for the god Pizza.
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