I’ll admit it, I used to think real pizza only existed in New York or Chicago. Then I took a wrong turn in Prescott and stumbled into a little brick hut with a chalkboard menu and the smell of garlic and woodsmoke pouring into the street.
I ordered a plain cheese slice on a whim, and halfway through, I stopped walking just to savor it. That moment changed everything. Since then, I’ve made it my mission to hunt down Arizona’s most surprising pizza gems.
The kind of places with no website, maybe just a Facebook page updated once a year, where the owner greets you like family and the sauce recipe’s been in the family since the ’80s…