The thrill of it all

"Brooklyn is the best," Jenn said tonight, as we waited for our pie to come out at DiFara's. Coming from Jenn that statement means a lot, since she grew up in Manhattan. DiFara's pizza has won countless accolades as one of the tops in the country. Arlene and I used to go there as kids after a day at the public library, but I was too young to remember whether it was that much better than other places. After eating there tonight, I'd have to say that it is. The pizzeria itself is a sty. "Wow!" Jenn remarked. "Look at the cool color of the ceiling!" The tin ceiling was sort of a putty color. "Sweetie," Luis said, "that's 40 years of grease."

He was right. The light beige color on the wall we sat near became progressively and irregularly darker on top. The ceiling had caked-on grease. The floors were covered with crusts and napkins and other detritus. But people don't go there for the ambiance. Watching elderly pizza maestro Domenico DeMarco labor over each pie--and take it out of the oven with his bare hands--is truly a privilege.

We had just driven to Midwood from Coney Island, which was jam-packed at 6:30 p.m. I'd like to recommend Coney Island as a nice place, but judging from the heavy presence of the NYPD, biker gangs, and loud radios, hooliganism is a problem. Pedestrians and drivers are rude and aggressive. Once a resort for the upper-middle class, Coney Island is now an attraction for the lower-middle class. Today was the both the start of the summer beach season and the grand reopening of the Stillwell Avenue subway station, so people were out in full force. We saw the sideshow, which I'd always refrained from seeing because I thought it was inhumane. But it was highly entertaining and thoroughly absorbing, and the performers seemed more "normal" than the people out on the street. My favorite performer was the German guy who swallowed a 5-ft-long balloon. He could make a lot of boys happy.

I've been on a lot of rollercoasters, and truthfully, bigger is not necessarily better. The wooden Cyclone is a prince among coasters. The ride creates just enough suspense and recovery time before the next thrilling segment. It's thrilling but not too thrilling. We got on at the perfect time, around 8:00 p.m. There was no line to speak of. The Atlantic Ocean sparkled at twilight, as the neon signs around us flashed before our eyes.

Luis had never been on the Cyclone. Jenn and Steve had been fairly recently. It had probably been about 10 years for me. I screamed so loudly I was hoarse. When we rolled back to the start, we decided to stay on and ride again, for $4 each. This time the guy in front of us, a heavy-set middle-aged man, kept yelling, "We're gonna die! We're gonna die!" As we climbed the first ascent, the car suddenly came to a halt on a 45-degree angle. Several attendants had to climb up to check the wooden slats, which the car seemed to have gotten stuck on. A few minutes later the car started moving again. Ahead of us the man resumed yelling "We're gonna die! We're gonna die!"

Mesmerizing freaks, thrilling rides, and amazing pizza, all in the space of 3 hours. Jenn's right: Brooklyn is the best.