Honey Pie: Pizza 107’s Neighbourhood Charm Works Wonders

There’s a scene in the quintessential rom-com Along Came Polly where Philip Seymour Hoffman scoffs at Ben Stiller for dabbing his pizza with a napkin, thereby reducing the amount of grease. In response, Hoffman’s character folds the slice and pours Stiller’s unwanted oil onto his own slice. I can’t remember whether this was before or after Hoffman announced that he “sharted” — although there’s an undeniable correlation between the two.

In Pizza 107’s only location at Hagamelur in Vesturbær, grease is a primary ingredient. A relatively new addition to Reykjavík’s pizza fauna, Pizza 107 was established by restaurateur Valgeir Gunnlaugsson — who opened Íslenska flatbakan in 2015 — and popstar Páll Óskar.

Firmly centering themselves in the Vesturbær neighbourhood, postcode 107 hence the name, Pizza 107 prides itself on the location. Decked with framed pictures of various Vesturbær photographs, the restaurant reflects on bygone eras.

Photo by Art Bicnick

It’s a quiet afternoon on Hagamelur where the only people around are parents on leave, strolling through the streets, probably contemplating whether or not to get a pizza. Alas, Pizza 107 is completely empty during what I imagined was to be the lunch-hour rush.

Unknown references

In recent years, Reykjavík’s pizza economy has experienced a great proliferation, expanding locals’ breadth of choices outside the sparse chains that have dominated the market for decades. Whether it’s the Neopolitan-style sourdough crusts at hip Flatey, or the New York-influenced pies by the venerated institution Devitos, Reykvíkingar have plenty to choose from — even if everyone ultimately defaults to ordering a Dominos.

Photo by Art Bicnick

Pizza 107’s offerings escape any traditional definitions, rather focusing on the service of providing a great, all-round pizza. There’s no mention of any sourdough, Italian heritage, or open-flame techniques, bolstering the fundamental concept of pizza — a canvas comprised of three essential components.

“Just as I was about to wash my hands, a life-size poster of Páll Óskar greeted me on the opposite wall.”

Going in, I was immediately hit with a choice-induced bout of anxiety. As I’m prone to, I quickly skim menus for something that sounds good, order it, and once seated, immediately forget what I could expect from the kitchen. Needless to say, it can make for a very frustrating dining experience with my friends.

Out of the restaurant’s 13 menu items, the ‘Pizzan hennar sætu sætu’ piqued my interest, topped with pepperoni, dates, cream cheese, and the cherry on top: honey. Having read various pizzeria menus throughout my career as a millennial, it made me contemplate whether the most difficult thing about owning a pizza restaurant is coming up with entertaining menu names. None of the references rang any of my bells, except ‘Pizzan frá Kamp Knox’, referring to Vesturbær’s location as a WWII American military base.

Pizza perfection

While checking out the restaurant’s bathroom facilities, I experienced a mixture of pleasant surprise and subdued horror. Just as I was about to wash my hands, a life-size poster of Páll Óskar greeted me on the opposite wall.

Photo by Art Bicnick

Through my work-related conversations with Páll over the weeks, I’ve come to learn that the artist/pizza purveyor is an incredibly meticulous person. That trait does not escape you while visiting Pizza 107. Its interiors are neatly decorated, with its most distinguishing features being countless ornate pendant lights hanging from the ceiling.

The most important thing for customers is that this level of professionalism extends to the food. It took 10 minutes to get a steaming hot pie on my table and the luscious mountain of breadsticks I added to the bill.

The key to a good pizza is having the fundamentals locked down. Everything else is a bonus, but a good pizza can survive a nuclear fallout when all the pepperoni in the world has been monopolised by a radioactive warlord. Palli’s pizza palace does just that. The crust was impeccably crisp, the base chewy and easily pliable to folding. It suffered no slippage of toppings or sauce onto my greasy plate, and the marinara was richer than Tevye the milkman’s wildest aspirations.

Photo by Art Bicnick

Being no stranger to the seriously lethal combination of dates and cream cheese on a pizza, the addition of honey was a breathtaking surprise. Even after stuffing myself full in three slices, I let temptation get the best of me, devouring the entire plate — save for the Swedish courtesy bite.

Defying expectations

A loose metric of mine when it comes to ranking pizza places is gauging their breadsticks. For some inexplicable reason, breadsticks and pizza have become a stable union throughout Icelandic pizza parlours.

My belly full of bread, I dove into the equally big disc of warm, oily bread garnished with the right amount of spice and heat. Offering three different choices of sticks, I slowly began to shudder with delight thinking about what power the other two breadstick variations held.

Photo by Art Bicnick

My initial expectations about Pizza 107 were quickly eradicated. Instead of getting a hoity-toity, open-flame baked slice of Italian heritage, Pizza 107 prides itself on a diverse menu of good, honest pizza. It’s a moment of honouring the food’s jumbled-up history, from the rowdy streets of Naples, to the hustle and bustle of New York, to Iceland’s barren food desert.

As opposed to the cookie-cutter pizzeria model Iceland has become accustomed to, Pizza 107 is a great option to an evening out in the neighbourhood. Their value for money came as a surprise, as a lunch offer split with a friend will lose you about 1.500 ISK for each party, with enough bread, sauce, and cheese to leave everyone satisfied.