I’d heard Morris Park, near the end of the Eastchester-Dyre 5 line, was sometimes called the Little Italy of the Bronx. Given that, there were certain things I expected to find there (pizzerias, Italian bakeries, cigar shops with young Sinatra’s mug shot blown up and displayed prominently), and I was not disappointed. When I spoke to a couple of Morris Park natives, they gave me some tips about the longstanding neighborhood favorites like Patricia’s (a classy Italian joint famous for its Spaghetti à la Frank Sinatra), Emilio’s (a pizza place that they assured me was “cheap but really good”), and Hawaii Sea (an Asian fusion restaurant where one of them had worked as a busboy when he was sixteen).

What I hadn’t anticipated was that the entire eastern side of the neighborhood would feel like an urban university campus because it was home to the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. Students are notoriously good at ferreting out good and inexpensive lunch spots, so I did some asking around. A young man of imposing size and thoughtful sincerity told me that “everybody” went to the pizza place named Coals. Several others had mentioned the same place, and when I walked past, the fragrant promise of copious amounts of garlic coaxed me inside.

This, perhaps, is a good time to address the problem of pizza snobbery that is rampant in New York. Everyone has a very strident opinion of where you can find the best slice, and allegiances don’t change easily. I, regrettably, have a double case of this affliction since I lived around Chicago for six years before moving to NYC. When my brother-in-law told me a few weeks ago that he didn’t like Chicago-style pizza, I snapped at him that he clearly hadn’t gone to the right places. I was immediately embarrassed that I had been rude over something as silly as pizza. But here’s the thing…I still think he went to the wrong places. And I still fall asleep some nights fantasizing that Giordano’s or Lou Malnati’s will decide to open a branch in Brooklyn.

So Coals had some serious skepticism to overcome. I believe that the only way a pizza place can be a standout in New York is to either raise the big, floppy, saucy and greasy slice with which we are all familiar to absolutely extraordinary heights or to try something entirely different. Coals turned out to be a master of the latter strategy.

The interior was a little eclectic (a weird little library plopped in the middle and a Buddha statue in place of Frankie’s mug shot), but pleasant enough. I sat at the bar and ordered the rustic pizza (fontinella, fresh mozzarella, roasted mushrooms, truffle oil, grana padano, and garlic), and I was impressed that while I waited for my food, I overheard two members of the staff earnestly discussing the Friday night dinner special and how it might be improved. Coals’ claim to fame is grilled pizza, which I sort of overlooked as a trendy linguistic cousin of “woodfired,” but when my paper-thin pizza landed in front of me, I could actually taste the grill. It had that same great back-of-the-mouth charcoal feeling as a hamburger straight off the barbecue.

Christ, it was good. So good that I might make the hour and a half journey from my apartment to have it again, and soon, too. It is, after all, easier than making a trip to Chicago. I wandered back to the train in a daze, imagining that if I were ever to have a little tête-à-tête with Sinatra and Einstein, I’d want that pizza on the table for us to snack upon.

Coals. 1888 Eastchester Road, Bronx, NY 10461-2327. (718) 823-7002.

Want me to take you to lunch? Send your End of the Line suggestions to Submissions@Pitchknives.com.