All I wanted was a slice. That's not too much to ask, is it?

I got off the R train at Union street in Park Slope, Brooklyn and walked up to Fifth avenue. The pizza shop on the corner was closed. I turned left, in the direction of Flatbush avenue. Four-and-a-half blocks later I couldn't believe that I hadn't passed a Pizzeria. On a commercial street chock full of restaurants and no pizza.

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I didn't want to keep moving away from Union street, where I was eventually headed, so I doubled-back, crossed over Union Street and continued on, figuring, again, a pizzeria would be near.

Nope. Nothing. Now, I'm pissed off at hipster Brooklyn like never before, when I finally find a spot on 3rd Street just off Fifth Avenue called Villa Rustica. I went in and ordered a couple of slices—one is always one too few.

Unless I'm at a fancy pizza spot, one of those places that claims to be "the best," I'm not picky. I'm looking for is a representative slice. Something I could offer up to an out-of-towner as a decent New York City slice. (How about that as spin on VORP—value above replacement pizza.) The slice at Villa Rustica wasn't spectacular but it was good and it made my anger go away.

Ah, the restorative powers of a representative, New York City slice.

[photo credit: Foodspotting]