LA Pizza Reviews

Pizza Review: Petrillo’s Pizza Restaurant (San Gabriel)

Petrillo's Pizza Restaurant exterior on Valley Blvd in San Gabriel

slutty Italian food [sluht-ee ih-tal-yuhn food]
noun

1. Pizza and pasta slathered in marinara sauce that’s as fluorescent as the dark squares on the vinyl red-checkered table cloths that they’re served upon, sometimes preceded by a Caesar salad featuring one-part dressing and two-parts croutons to one-part romaine lettuce. Usually handled by a sweaty, hairy, sixty-something woman who claims to have family in Sicily, but you’re never really sure if she’s telling you the truth. You’ll resolve to believe her as long as she kindly brings you free spumoni ice cream at the end of the meal.

Synonyms: Paradise

I grew up with a deep love for slutty Italian food. If you know it, you know it. From the kind of joint where they slap a random ethnic-sounding name on the sign out front, they get an old couple to shout a few accented words out of the kitchen every so often, and they repaint the walls enough times to be able to start a few innocent rumors that there were three different mafia hits in the main dining room, back in the day. There isn’t any place in Italy with remotely similar food. Maybe Jersey, but not Italy.

In my childhood suburban corner of San Diego County, the place was called Borrelli’s. I ate my weight there in oily pizza and overcooked pasta and garlic bread where the butter never fully melted – maybe it was actually margarine. I ate so much at my sixth grade birthday party there that I blew chunks in the parking lot and had to stay home sick for the next two days in a row. The following year, in seventh grade, Mrs. Hurley finally decided that I could write when I penned an essay professing my love for Borrelli’s. She had me read it aloud to the class to showcase my vivid use of adjectives – gooey, acidic, fatty, sumptuous, heavenly – and everybody stared at me gobsmacked as I rattled off every one of the dozen-or-so dishes I would eat over the course of a single dinner. Finally, the squeaky-voiced Jeff Larson, who made up for his small stature by riding a cool-ass dirtbike every day after school, broke the silence: “You eat… all of that? Every time you go!? How do your parents afford it!?” Jeff later went on to play Bilbo in the Hi8-shot adaptation of The Hobbit that I directed for the same English class, and on our dinner break between scenes, we had none other than Borrelli’s.

These kinds of places are a dime-a-dozen on the East Coast, and usually the food’s pretty good. But here on the West Coast, they’re a dying breed, which makes those that live on especially worth cherishing, even if they can’t compete quality-wise with those in New York and New Jersey and Pennsylvania. The beloved Mama Petrillo’s in Temple City closed on New Year’s Eve of last year, and I still kick myself for never making my way over there. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Petrillo’s Pizza Restaurant – just Petrillo’s, no Mama in front – in nearby San Gabriel, which has been around since 1954. Back then, there weren’t many Chinese residents in the San Gabriel Valley; now, the storefronts are covered in Chinese characters, and this Italian joint truly feels like a relic of another time. If you grab a pizza here and an Old Fashioned at Al’s Cocktail Lounge – another delight in the neighborhood – you can begin to imagine what it was like to be a white working-class stiff in the SGV of the ’50s and ’60s. But then you catch a whiff of dim sum, and the cultural and political factors of the intervening decades, which are just as much a part of the rich fabric of my favorite alcove of LA suburbia, catch up with you.

An era-appropriate neon sign for Petrillo's illuminates Valley Blvd. at dusk — An era-appropriate neon sign for Petrillo’s illuminates Valley Blvd. at dusk

But Petrillo’s keeps on rolling, and even though it feels out of place nowadays, patrons seem to come from all over the SGV for the pizza and pasta. Having commuted the 20 minutes from Pasadena, I seemed to be more the rule than the exception. For now, what with Covid, only the takeout window is open, but if the evening I picked up my pie is any indication, they seem to maintaining a healthy clip of phone orders. The same goes for their second location, a little farther east in Glendora. This is one of those places that you could easily call an “institution,” but doing so would only scratch the surface of a surely colorful history.

The pizza box at Petrillo's, which permanently advertises a Tuesday takeout special — The pizza box at Petrillo’s, which advertises a Tuesday takeout special

Unfortunately, I wish I liked the pizza as much as the aesthetic. This is what I call a “ball of dough pizza,” which is to say, as each slice tumbles down your esophagus and into your digestive system, I imagine they roll up into one giant snowball. Hopefully for our GI tracts, they don’t become sedimentary rocks, but there are no guarantees with slutty Italian food. Don’t get me wrong: I find it very satisfying to gulp down fistfuls of dough, and the crust at Petrillo’s has a delightfully gluten-rich taste that gives the floury globs a real sense of character as you chew and chew and chew some more. But there’s a difference between a pizza that provides gluttonous pleasure, as this one most certainly does, and a genuinely good pizza.

A half-eaten (sorry!) medium pizza from Petrillo's -- half pepperoni, half pepperoni and onion — A half-eaten (sorry!) medium pizza from Petrillo’s — half pepperoni, half pepperoni and onion

The ingredients that top the thick, puffy-but-dense crust are serviceably hearty, but nothing you wouldn’t expect to find your Nonna buying at the nearby Costco in Alhambra. The sauce has the requisite red fluorescence, acting as the proper cement for slutty Italian bricklaying. The cheese is best eaten on cold pizza the next day, once it has coagulated into a thick, lasagna-like layer in the fridge. Indeed, if you’ve had one too many of the stiff drinks at Al’s, I’d imagine this to be a first-rate hangover pie. The pepperoni is large and plentifully spread, but also a little rubbery on the greasy underside. (By the way, while I only formally review the plain pepperoni pizza, I did love, love, love the virtually flavorless white onions also available as a topping – a staple of slutty Italian cuisine – which took me right back to Borrelli’s with their blackened ends.)

And yet, what this pizza lacks in true quality, it sure makes up for in quantity. You know this place was started by a couple who had survived the Great Depression, because one pie was clearly intended to feed an Italian American family of seven for a month. The medium pizza, which runs about $25, is the size of any other joint’s extra large – and likely twice the thickness. It’s cut in the most off-kilter pattern, mixing triangles and squares and God knows what other geometric shapes – in a pattern that I’m sure comes second-nature to the fellas in the kitchen, but looks an awful lot like the puzzles that I failed to solve on the Gifted and Talented Education test, hoisting me into Mrs. Hurley’s remedial English period. If this slicing method has existed since 1954, I’d consider it a Dadaist triumph over the prevailing squareness of the era. While I’m usually an equilateral triangle guy when it comes to pizza, who doesn’t want to try a pie that delivers equilateral, isosceles, square, and rhombus in one meal?

When the dining room reopens at Petrillo’s, I will surely cross under the tattered awnings and proceed to stuff myself silly, dragging whatever friends I can convince to sit around the table and order more appetizers than we have people. By the time the pizza comes out, no one will have enough room left, but we’ll keep going anyway. This is the kind of place where you can vibe your heart out, relishing the nostalgia you feel for a time that you didn’t even experience. I can see it in my mind: I was in the back of a wood-paneled station wagon, driving down S. Gladys Ave. and waving at the short, burly Italian dad watering the lawn with a seafoam garden hose pointed to the sky, wearing a wifebeater with slacks and discount loafers from Penny’s that his wife pointed out in the LA Times circular, before rounding the corner and collecting a medium pepperoni pie from Petrillo’s for a couple bucks. Maybe in a past life.

That’s what slutty Italian food is: a feeling as much as a meal. And that’s why Petrillo’s, for all its technical faults, hits the spot in its own sloppy, saucy way.

78/100

Petrillo’s Pizza Restaurant is open seven days a week from 11 a.m. to 7:30 p.m, with hours extending to 8 p.m. on Fridays and Saturdays, at 833 E. Valley Blvd. in San Gabriel. Place an order by calling (626) 280-7332; no online ordering is available.

My First Bite Reaction (on YouTube):

Pizza Review: U Street Pizza (Pasadena)

Pasadena, Pizza Reviews, San Gabriel Valley / By Danny Baldwin

The exterior of U Street Pizza in Pasadena, here reviewed by pizza critic Danny Baldwin

One of the things that I’ve come to recognize in adulthood is that, contrary to what the cynics often say, the integrity of people and institutions generally doesn’t buckle very easily, even when we might want it to. The neighborhood parking enforcement officer usually isn’t going to stop writing you that ticket when you explain that you were just running in real quickly to grab your dry cleaning. The Michelin-star chef isn’t going to modify the house recipe just because you can’t stand the texture of onions. The most popular girl in school isn’t going to suddenly decide she wants to date you because you made her laugh once in Spanish class. Contrary to popular belief, people and even things do have standards.

A glorious, notable exception to this rule has to do with pizza and ranch dressing. Even those of us who are the most effusive about the combination recognize that there are certain types of pizza that are meant for ranch, and others that deserve more respect than to be slathered in the sap of Hidden Valley. Pizza Hut? Absolutely. Pitfire Pizza? Sure, we’ll allow it. Pizzeria Mozza? Don’t you fucking dare, you filthy animal. But rules are sometimes meant to be broken, and there’s nothing better than a slice of pizza that knows it’s way too good for ranch opening its loving, pepperoni-accessorized arms and saying “dearest ranch, I will lower my standards and allow myself to be drizzled upon to give pleasure to He or She Who Eats Me.”

The pizza boxes at U Street feature one of the more fun font treatments I've seen lately — The pizza boxes at U Street feature one of the more fun font treatments I’ve seen lately

Which brings us to U Street Pizza, the much-ballyhooed, pie-slinging infant sibling to the upscale-ish Italian staple Union in Old Town Pasadena. When I opened the cardboard box housing this pie, its gorgeous crust-char immediately took my breath away. The ingredients – as with the Side Pie pizza I reviewed a few weeks ago, this one features Ezzo pepperonis and a sauce made from Bianco DiNapoli tomatoes – looked well-curated and well-cooked. This was a pizza to be admired, even before I took my first bite.

You see, normally I wouldn’t even think about putting ranch on such a pie, even as a big fan of the fusion. It would be like asking for the #1 Large Popcorn and Blue Raspberry Icee Combo at the opera. But having been oblivious to what a beautiful box of gluten craftsmanship awaited me and intrigued by its absurdly high price point upon ordering, I had tacked on a side of the house ranch to my order. At a whopping $4 for a tiny little cup, the ranch at U Street likely costs more, ounce-for-ounce, than another white substance I’ve heard you can buy underneath the 210 Freeway overpass a few blocks away.

The pepperoni pie from U Street Pizza in Pasadena — A bird’s eye view of the pepperoni pie from U Street Pizza in Pasadena

First, I had the naked pepperoni pizza – no dipping in the $4 condiment allowed, so as to not cloud my initial judgment. It was every bit as good as it looked. The crispy, crunchy crust is perhaps the best I’ve had in Los Angeles, a textural symphony that is the defining achievement of a thoroughly fantastic pizza. If I have any complaint about it, it’s that the far edges of the crust could be just a little less blackened, to make the part without toppings just a tad chewier. But that’s a nitpick: both in terms of flavor and crack, this crust is heaven-sent. Whether it’s the Cairnspring Mills flour, the two-day fermentation of the dough, the lower-heat woodburning oven, or (more likely) the combination of all three, I don’t know, but I know it’s a revelation.

As for the toppings: you can taste the quality. I wish there was a little bit more of the Bianco DiNapoli-based sauce, and I’m not sure I really needed the finely-grated strands of Fiscalini cheddar that adorn the crust. When I first ate the pizza, I mistook this finishing cheese for standard parmesan, as it tastes very similar, though I had a feeling it was a little bit different because of the way it vaguely melted together before hardening. A quick Google search confirms it’s actually a special type of cheddar. No matter, the fresh mozzarella that coats the bulk of the pizza is terrific.

Danny gets ready to dip U Street's pepperoni slice in the house ranch — Danny gets ready to dip U Street’s pepperoni slice in the house ranch

Then, the moment of truth came – time to dip this pizza in the ranch that I paid for, the tiny cup that cost me what was an hour’s worth of take-home pay from my first job sweeping popcorn off multiplex floors. First, I dipped the slightly-too-blackened section of the outer crust to see if it would offset the bitterness of the char. Not only did this do the trick, but in mere seconds, I was transported to a sort of ranch nirvana… This is the kind of nectar that might flow into the delta of Hidden Valley if it actually deserved to be hidden. This is a dressing that tastes alive, bursting with zingy, summery notes that you’d be more likely to find in a good Zinfandel. It’s the kind of ranch that I would relish dipping this pizza in while enjoying a warm September evening in the backyard of one of the late 19^th Century Spanish mansions that hide behind the wrought iron gates of Pasadena’s Annandale neighborhood. But then again, I’d relish doing a lot of things in such a setting, especially with a suitable, atypically comfortable wicker chair.

And yes, when I gained the courage to dip the tip of the triangle head-first into the ranch, it was absolutely as transcendent a moment as the first ranch-coated bite was. I’ve never tried the aforementioned stuff that you can get under the 210 overpass, but with U Street Pizza and ranch delivering this kind of body high, who needs it? Yes, this is a pizza much too good for ranch, but the fact that it embraces the tacky condiment anyway – integrity be damned – makes it even more irresistible.

91/100

U Street Pizza is open Tuesday through Sunday from 4 p.m. to 9 p.m. at 33 Union St. in Pasadena. Place an order by calling (626) 605-0340 or on the web at https://ustreetpizza.com/.

My First Bite Reaction (on YouTube):

Pizza Review: Grimaldi’s (El Segundo)

1 Comment / Beach Cities, El Segundo, Pizza Reviews, South Bay / By Danny Baldwin

Grimaldi's Pizza

The upside of my brother and his girlfriend abandoning me in Pasadena for the beach – much to the chagrin of my snowbird neighbors who find me to be a vastly inferior front porch conversationalist – is they can keep tabs on the South Bay pizza scene for me. Sitting where I am in the San Gabriel Valley, the slices in Manhattan often feel more easily accessible than those in Torrance. The JetBlue redeye from Burbank to Kennedy? Easy peasy. They have live DirecTV on the back of every chair if you can’t sleep! The 110 South at dinnertime? Torture.

That said, I immediately questioned the credibility of my newly-appointed Beach Cities Pizza Guides as we pulled up to their first recommendation, Grimaldi’s, which is just a stone’s throw from the still-dormant ArcLight in El Segundo, to collect our two takeaway pies. The exterior looks just like your average office park-adjacent California Pizza Kitchen, nestled underneath one of the many outposts of commercial real estate giant JLL. (Which is not to diss CPK – I love me one of their chicken toastada pies, add avocado please – but it’s part of a genre I call “flatbread etc.”, it’s not true pizza.)

The boxes from Grimaldi's, which tout the company's many locations across the U.S. — The boxes from Grimaldi’s, which tout the company’s many locations across the U.S.

I grew even more skeptical of Grimaldi’s when I saw the box, which touts locations across 14 states. Even Alabama and Idaho have a Grimaldi’s! I’m all for small businesses expanding their footprint and realizing the American Dream without getting hosed by a team-up of Mark Cuban and Mr. Wonderful in the process, but how good could a pizza possibly be if it exists in Idaho?

I had to tell myself to take deep breaths and remember: Danny, your favorite Chicago deep dish pie comes from Giordano’s, which has dozens of locations across 10 states. Not all mini-major pizza chains are sellouts; in fact, many are able to expand because they’re so beloved. That’s pepperoni-fueled capitalism at its best: the demand for a slice is so high, the proprietor must set up a second window to dispense of said slice, and then a third, and then a fourth. And if that window happens to be in a sterile, rodent-free edifice that also facilitates the signing of office leases upstairs, so be it. Remember: You’re in it for the pizza, Danny. Gulp.

The pepperoni pizza from Grimaldi's, half of which has also has jalapeños at the request of one of my South Bay Pizza Guides, Lauren. — The pepperoni pizza from Grimaldi’s, half of which has also has jalapeños at the request of one of my South Bay Pizza Guides, Lauren

Well, color me surprised. I liked this pizza. In fact, I really liked it. The trick behind Grimaldi’s pie is they’ve got a coal-fired oven, which keeps the cooking temperature between 800 and 900 degrees and produces a crisp like none other. The eco-conscious class will say that wood-fired and convection ovens are just as good – indeed, the political assault on coal extends not just to West Virginia mining towns, but the pizza industry – but those are the same people who tell you with a straight face that LED lights produce just as satisfying a glow as halogen. I’m all for cutting emissions, but those people are liars. This past weekend, CalTrans updated one of the four small tunnels on the 110 heading North into Highland Park and Pasadena to LEDs. The other three still burn halogen. The old ones make you feel like you’re in a 1980s Michael Mann film; the new one puts you smack dab in the middle of Blackhat. You tell me which feels right.

Close-up on the pepperoni pie. — Close-up on the pepperoni pie

But back to the pizza. Partly because of the oft-levied objections to coal, there aren’t many coal-fired joints left – I’m unaware of any other in Greater LA, but surely there must be – which makes this pie feel very unique. The crust is what I would call sturdy, but not in a laborious-to-eat kind of way; this is the sort of heft that makes your teeth and jaw feel like they’re actually being used properly for once, rising to the occasion to meet the crispy, crunchy textural symphony that is Grimaldi’s. How blessed we are to live in this moment, even if it means contending with the unpleasant glare of LED lights; our cavemen ancestors had to eat raw chicken bones and risk salmonella if they wanted to feel this alive.

Grimaldi’s originated in the Dumbo neighborhood of Brooklyn, which is not too far from the longstanding Italian groceries that sell the kind of hearty, quality ingredients that top this pie. The main thing you notice about the pizza after you’ve adequately indulged in the crust is just how hearty each component on the top is. The mozzarella is clumpy in a way that evokes the curdling process, making you feel like you can taste the source of the buffalo’s milk. I felt like I was eating a good quality cheese, though it struck me as too heavy for a crust this delightfully wafer thin. The pepperoni is better than what you’d find on a good charcuterie board curated at Whole Foods without attention to the number of digits at the bottom of the receipt. The sauce is also well-seasoned and well-executed, though there wasn’t enough of it for my taste. With a crust this firm, they could really stand to layer on some more sauce; there’s really no risk of flop here.

The pesto pizza from Grimaldi's — The pesto pizza from Grimaldi’s

To keep things consistent from place-to-place, I always review the standard pepperoni pie, unless there’s a different, single signature pizza that a specific joint is world-renowned for. So, I’m not going to formally evaluate the pesto pie that we also ordered, alongside the pepperoni. But, what I will say is, I think I preferred the way that the olive oil-rich pesto produced a slightly more toothsome version of the innards of Grimaldi’s delectable crust. Of course, I wonder if the same might be possible for the pepperoni if the red sauce – which surely contains some olive oil – were more thickly layered on. I love the crunchiness of the bottom, but on the pepperoni pie, I wanted the same gluteny textural interplay that I got from the inside of the pesto pie.

As an outsider looking in, when I think of El Segundo, my mind immediately goes to the massive Chevron Oil Refinery that was first opened in the city over a century ago by the Standard Oil Company. It’s still the largest-producing refinery on the West Coast. Given the state’s massive effort to reduce fossil fuel dependency – surely to be expedited with Governor Newsom comfortably surviving this week’s recall election – who really knows how much time the refinery has left in operation. The same could be said for Grimaldi’s, as El Segundo, like many cities before it, will certainly ban coal-burning ovens when the political climate is right. At that point, if I want to bite into this special crust, I guess I’ll just have to buy a plane ticket to Idaho. Too bad there’s not a nonstop from Burbank, and I’ll find myself right back in the neighborhood, running the usual 20 minutes behind on my way to LAX.

82/100

Grimaldi’s is open seven days a week from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. at 2121 Rosecrans Ave Ste 1399 in El Segundo. Place an order by calling (310) 648-7503 or on the web at https://www.grimaldispizzeria.com/.

My First Bite Reaction (on YouTube):

Pizza Review: Side Pie (Altadena)

6 Comments / Altadena, Pizza Reviews, San Gabriel Valley / By Danny Baldwin

Side Pie Exterior - Altadena, CA

Judging solely by the number of times I’ve seen their striking boxes – which feature a green-tinted, meditating garden gnome that evokes a psychedelic trip as much as the mushroom window paintings adorning the building exterior – pop up in my Instagram feed, Altadena’s relative newcomer Side Pie portends not only the next trend in LA pizza-going, but also the next trend in home buying.

You see, for as much as Altadena has been touted as the latest Eagle Rock or Highland Park in the local press, a buyer’s market does not become a buyer’s market until there’s a vetted, beloved pizza joint to sustain it. What about the 2013-founded Pizza of Venice, a handful of blocks over on Fair Oaks, you ask? To which I say: Even if there’s a plain cheese pie – not to mention chicken wings – on the menu, any joint with Yelp photos dominated by beds of arugula and goat cheese is still squarely in the realm of speculative real estate.

Which is not to say that Side Pie, whose menu currently features a pizza called “Jah Mama Za,” a chicken empanada pie made in partnership with the drummer of the rock band TV on the Radio, doesn’t offer an ample touch of the high-falutin. There’s no question that more pairs of Doc Martens trot up to the order window here than do into Pizza Joe’s right down Lake Ave., the only remaining relic of another era of pizza-eating – and life – in Altadena. (No, I will not bring the Altadena-adjacent Domenico’s into this conversation on a technicality, but there will certainly be time to discuss their delightfully slutty red sauce on another day.)

Side Pie Pizza Box — The gnome-adorned Side Pie box

What I mean to get at here is, despite the highly ’grammable aesthetic and premium $20-25 price point on most of the pizzas (which are medium-sized), Side Pie turns out a product that is perfect for bringing home to any nuclear family sporting a socially-inclusive yard sign. Yes, it’s packaged right for the moment, but it’s truly a quality pizza – which ultimately does matter in justifying a neighborhood’s growth into seven-figure asks.

The pizza itself is not just good, it verges on great in many respects. Given that this is my inaugural review here at LA Pizza Reviews, allow me to establish my methodology first: I critique the plain pepperoni pie only, unless there is a widely-recognized signature pizza, in which case I will review that instead. At Side Pie, that pizza might be “The Altadena,” which is essentially a ’roni pie with fresh mozzarella, ricotta, and basil, but there’s not enough of an established consensus on this yet, so I defaulted back to the straight ’ol Pepperoni.

The Pepperoni pizza features, as the Side Pie order site instructs us, a Bianco DiNapoli organic tomato base, mozzarella and parmesan cheese, and pepperoni from Ezzo, the last independent natural casing pepperoni producer (“simply THE BEST!”). By the by, the Ezzo family has been curing meats in Columbus, Ohio for over a century – and given the hypertensive properties of pepperoni, it’s not even an idiom to call them “the salt of the Earth.” But back to the pizza: It’s cooked in a mammoth woodfired oven that often makes an appearance on social media, as it’s tiled with a Grateful Dead skull.

Side Pie pepperoni pizza — Side Pie’s Pepperoni Pizza

This is one of those pizzas that immediately tastes like you’re eating something high-quality – not just greasy pizza, but real food. It’s almost light, but not in the same airy, unfulfilling sense as most overhyped Neapolitan trifles; instead, it seems this way simply because it’s a pizza you can eat a lot of without feeling like the grease might be as poisonous to you as dirty motor oil is to an old Cadillac already on its last legs. Indeed, even though the suggested serving size on one pie here is probably 2-3 people, I ate the whole pizza by the time I crossed the 210 Freeway, heading South back into my maiden Pasadena.

Every ingredient that tops the Side Pie pepperoni contributes to the perfect pizza symphony. The sauce has exactly the right tang – bold, but appropriately neutral, neither too fruity nor too refined. The two cheeses are applied in just the right amounts and taste like the good stuff you’d buy at Whole Foods, but the pizza chefs have also paid diligent attention to their moisture and fat content, so they don’t yield puddles of grease like so many other good cheeses do. As for the Ezzo pepperonis – yes, they are indeed “simply THE BEST!” as the site says.

Where I’m a bit more mixed – and what holds this pizza back from transcendence, in my estimation – is the crust. While I absolutely love the chewiness – this is a crust you want to literally sink your teeth into – it could really use more crispiness at the bottom. I understand that this is a woodfired pie, not a true greasy New York slice, but given the delightful char-bubbles at the head of the crust, I sensed there was potential for some superior crisp on the underside. By no means does Side Pie have the depressing floppiness of a traditional Neapolitan, but the crust overall could facilitate more of a pleasantly crunchy interplay with the toothsomeness of its innards.

Side Pie pizza close-up

Crust-driven qualms aside, Side Pie is nonetheless a pizza I have been thinking about for a whole week since having it. As I journey across Los Angeles in search of the perfect slice, reserving precious calories for each new stop, this will be one of those joints that I keep returning to along the way, new discoveries be damned. It’s a pie good enough to build a family and a life around in burgeoning Altadena, but move quickly if you want to have any money left over for takeaway pizza.

87/100

Side Pie is open Thursday-Sunday from 4 p.m. to 9 p.m. at 900 E Altadena Dr. in Altadena. Place an order by calling (707) SIDE-PIE or on the web at https://www.side-pie.com/.

My First Bite Reaction (on YouTube):