In 2007, our business plan at Roberta's could best be summarized as: Buy dead Italian pizzeria; ship to Brooklyn; figure out the rest later. We were just some young creatives trying to do something original. We had purchased the remains of a dying pizzeria in Fossano, Italy, and shipped it across the Atlantic: one Pavesi wood-fired oven, one mixer wired for European power, some refrigeration, and a slab of marble—everything we thought we needed to open our own pizzeria.
I remember telling friends about our plans. It was oddly hard to articulate. When you said, “pizzeria,” people just assumed you meant a slice shop. I think most of my friends thought we were crazy.
We loved places like Grimaldi’s, Arturo’s, and Frank Pepe’s. At the time, there weren’t many Neapolitan-style pizzerias around, and there’s a magic to them that we wanted to explore in Brooklyn. We wanted to bring people together around exceptional food in a space that felt as much like a watering hole as a restaurant.
We fell in love with the area around the Morgan Avenue L train stop. It wasn’t quite East Williamsburg but not quite Bushwick either—a six-block-by-six-block industrial neighborhood full of weirdos. Converted warehouse lofts and underground venues dotted the streets. There were artists, musicians, writers, and craftsmen, but there were also cars still smoldering from the previous night’s torch jobs and a wild pack of dogs that roamed the streets. The neighborhood’s young energy was infectious. You could feel something extraordinary percolating.
The space at 261 Moore Street was the first and only one we looked at. It was an old nut and bolt factory, as dilapidated as it was extraordinary. It felt as if stalactites were growing from the ceiling. It had a large roll-down gate in the rear of the building that led to a small backyard. It was love at first sight.
After months of extreme DIY renovation, we were almost there, but we still hadn’t received the equipment from Italy. We called the carrier, and they told us it was lost at sea. What a load of crap. It wasn’t lost—this was an extortion job! They told us for five grand they could “find” it for us. Almost out of money at this point, we offered them two grand and waited. Five days later, the container miraculously showed up. The real learning curve was just beginning. Once we installed the oven and rewired the European equipment, we were finally ready. We were off to the races.
We opened in January 2008 with no heat and no gas. We attempted to heat the place with space heaters and gave our guests blankets. This provided some warmth, but not the bone-deep kind you need on a Brooklyn winter night. What the place lacked in literal warmth, it made up for in soul. The neighborhood, eccentric creatives who understood what we were trying to build, came out in full force. ArtistsArtist would sketch at the table between courses, musicians toting instrument cases would comment on the night's musical selections. It was brimming with energy, and all we had to do was harness it.
Quality was already non-negotiable for us. Everyone deserved exceptional food, and we were committed to delivering it in a warm, unpretentious environment where guests could escape the pressures of daily life. Once behind those cinder block walls, it felt like vacation—if only for a few hours.
That energy continued until 2009, when we got our first New York Times review. It was astonishing how 700 words could change the dynamic of a restaurant so completely. People were coming from all over the city, and not just the artists and hipsters. Real estate developers, lawyers, and bankers were eating dry-aged steaks and Barolo. They shared tables with tattooed musicians eating pizzas and drinking Budweiser. The dynamic was incredible—it made for one of the most exciting dining rooms in Brooklyn.
By 2013, Bushwick had become a brand of its own, and we’d played a significant role in that transformation. Block parties with thousands of people, tiki disco with the fashionably elite, and street art everywhere. This was attracting people from all over the world to Roberta’s and to the neighborhood itself.
We were packed from the second we opened the door until the early hours of morning. What had started as a simple pizzeria had evolved into a sprawling compound that felt like an adult amusement park—complete with a radio station, rooftop garden, a two-Michelin-starred tasting menu, and a gift shop filled with merchandise. All within what felt like a cinder block fortress topped with barbed wire. The juxtaposition felt surreal—beauty behind barbed wire, warmth within concrete walls. And the food—the food was the heart of it all.
We wanted to give this experience to everyone. A watering hole where you could find your people. A place where quality wasn’t a privilege—it was the expectation. Part neighborhood bar where regulars claimed their corner seats, part family pizza parlor for post-game celebrations, part adventure for those brave enough to try something like fish collar on a special night. We spent endless hours crafting pasta, making mozzarella, dry aging steaks and formulating the perfect dough. We introduced people to Amaro, natural wine, and honey on pizza. We arranged and rearranged rooms to make people feel close to one another. We built our community around great food, great people, and giving everyone permission to simply be themselves.
In the end, it’s all about creating moments of happiness. We do this every day to try and provide that for people, and we will continue to do that as long as the people allow us. Because behind those cinder block walls, magic happens—and everyone deserves a little magic in their life.
