One of the worst parts of living in Diamond Bar is the absence of a quality slice. Wedged between the franchise oligarchs and Tim Taylor pizzerias of southern California, I face a doughy, mirthless, over salted world where the attachment of “New York” to anything is sure to be an abomination of all parties involved. Accordingly, whenever I return to my alma mater, I take part in a ritual designed to replenish the aspects of city life I’ve missed most since moving back home: pizza, pubs, and the freedom to enjoy both without having to man a horseless carriage.

The pizza pub crawl was conceived on a fine May afternoon at Triple Rock Brewery and Alehouse. I had just polished off a pint of Dragon’s Milk ale when revelation struck: I was hungry. Not only was I hungry, I was four short city blocks away from my favorite pizzeria in the country. I grabbed a friend and split for Center and Shattuck, stopping only to give R2-D2 a wookiee hug.

After devouring a fresh slice, I was hit by another moment of insight: I was thirsty. Not only was I thirsty, I was four short city blocks away from my favorite bar in the Bay Area. Within minutes I was seated once again at Triple Rock, quaffing a cold pilsner and wondering just how far this wonderful slice of city life could be stretched upon my next visit. Three return trips later, I’ve come to believe that with proper care, there is no limit to the lifespan of a pizza pub crawl, save a feint of heart.

In downtown Berkeley, conditions are perfect. Given the moderate size of the city, the proximity of its downtown metro to the university campus, and the reputation of its citizens for excellent taste, it’s not much of a surprise that the best pizza and beer in town have happily landed within a shared radius of six blocks. By steadily alternating consumption of a pint, a slice, a glass of water and a walk around the neighborhood, I can attain an extended epicurean buzz that feels something like Santa Claus and all eight of his reindeer curled up next to a fireplace inside my stomach on a cold Christmas day, becoming more and more intoxicated with the unwrapping of each edible gift.

At the epicenter of this pizza pub crawl stands Triple Rock, self-proclaimed “America’s oldest original brewpub.” Fashioned in the style of a classic American tavern and stocked with a healthy variety of signature ales, this homebrewed sweetheart of Cal students, Berkeley denizens and the decayed alcoholic zombie corpses of 49ers brings to the table a glass of the old new world. Its most memorable brews, ranging between 5% and 13% alcohol content, aim not to refresh the body as much as warm the soul. My personal favorites on the ale list, Tree Frog and Dragon’s Milk, strike a crafty balance between California hops and old country malts without giving in to the overpowering floral bitterness of the former or the complacent sweetness of the latter. Either choice is the perfect prologue to satisfaction, just a three minute walk down Shattuck Avenue.

Pie in the Sky, an independent pizzeria that opened in spring of 2005, is quite possibly California’s greatest achievement in the pizza universe. Owned by a local couple who run their counter with all the graces and smiles of Mom and Pop, this slice of divine intervention has forged a union of New York style and California ingredients. The crust, tossed with a margin of whole wheat and baked in Neapolitan fashion, offers flex and flavor in every crisp and crackling bite. The tomato sauce, hitting just the right note of richness and sweetness, is paired in flawless proportion with a blend of mozzarella and white cheddar that weeps quality.

Bringing everything into focus is a bold array of fresh toppings. Sky Pie, the slice that single handedly converted me to pizza vegetarianism, combines mozzarella, feta, tomatoes, eggplant, walnut and arugula into a soothing rainbow of flavors that melts right into the crust as it browns. Son of Sky, Sky Pie’s more aggressive offspring, goes for the gusto with mozzarella, ricotta, pesto, garlic, roasted tomatoes, artichokes, black olives and red onions. Also available are standard cheese, pepperoni, and daily specials, bearing such instant classic titles as “The Gipper” and “Mea Copa.” Through its dexterous use of quality toppings, Pie in the Sky serves on the daily what California Pizza Kitchen has failed to accomplish in its 28 years of novelty existence: the successful weaving of California’s rich produce profile into the tapestry of a New York slice.

Just around the corner is Jupiter Beerhouse, a more upscale member of the Triple Rock brewpub family. Emulating the ambience of a German bier hall, Jupiter presents a warm, spacious backdrop populated by a cast of signature ales, lagers and wheat beers. While it’s not as singularly charming as Triple Rock, drinkers are no worse off for the difference. The beer is tasty, the atmosphere warm and humming, and the wood-fired oven baked pies another hint of the true potential of the California slice. While far from the heights of Pie in the Sky, Jupiter’s modestly priced pizza takes a similar approach in its thin crusts, elegant arrangements and lush toppings. There’s only so much richness to be had in one sitting, though, and an hour or two in the cozy chambers of Jupiter, gourmand’s claustrophobia begins to set in. I take this as my cue to hit the street, for just one block away is the progenitor of New York pizza in the Bay Area.

Arinell is Berkeley’s tried and true home of aluminum seating, employees schooled more in Hüsker Dü than customer service, and a slice that any pizza lover would recognize as a foldable bite of the Big Apple- for better or for worse. With its no-frills Neapolitan crust, straight cuts of tomato sauce and mozzarella and lackluster toppings warmed to order, Arinell might be lacking in the department of evolution. Every once in a while, though, someone’s gotta slam his gruff, hairy hand on the counter and remind the general public that Berkeley is supposed to be an urban environment, not some kind magical wood of gourmet pizza fairies.

While it won’t win any awards, an Arinell slice is the reliable reality check that reminds me of what’s missing from my life. The savory blend of cheese and sauce, the near-raw smattering of bell pepper tossed on as an afterthought and the tiny puddles of grease suspended in between come together like an edible cityscape awaiting my eventual return from the suburbs of San Gabriel Valley. As the crust crunches and crumbles into its own greasy lifeblood, I look out the window and remember exactly what it feels like to be on a bustling city street. I also remember exactly what it feels like to be half drunk and half empty, knowing that as long as I can make it to the metro by midnight there’s nothing stopping me from walking back to Triple Rock right now for another round of ales. And, not coincidentally, I remember that Zen Arcade is a damn fine piece of rock and roll.

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This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 9th, 2008 at 8:31 pm and is filed under East Bay.