To my left, two Godfathers and a metrosexual. In front of me, a curious assortment of people discussing comparative religion (but mostly the new Pope). In front of me, a glass of lovely Barbera and a thin crust pizza with smoked provolone, basil and cherry tomatoes. The smoke flavor is overwhelming, the sauce insipid and the crust so weak that all the bits fell off my first slice. It is, in this New Yorker's opinion, a major pizza fail. BUT! It's a great Pittsburgh effort and for that reason I give it three stars. The service is stellar, and the effort admirable. Go. Order the antipasti (it looks beautiful) and keep the pie simple. And order some wine.