This is part of a continuing series about what it's like for me to wait for pizza at Di Fara. Di Fara, though not the most celebrated or the oldest of New York's great pizzerias, is the object of the fiercest and most cult-like following -- a feverish sect whose veneration centers on Dom De Marco, Di Fara's cryptic, ageless owner and proprietor. The rite of worship involves standing around for measureless spans of time, waiting for him to notice you, and then for him to actually serve you a slice of pizza. It is the best pizza anywhere.

Every time I find myself standing around at Di Fara -- and it happens more and more -- I start to think about a slice limit. In any other pizzeria, of course, there would be one. But then, in any other pizzeria, there would be a dozen cold, pre-cooked pizzas, ready to be reheated. That's not the way it works at Di Fara. Here, a dozen people will stand elbow to elbow, waching a septuagenarian make pizzas in slow motion, in the patient hope that they might get a slice. They don't complain; they don't ask impertinent questions; they don't look at their watches and then exchange exasperated glances. No. They're down with Dom, and off New York time. The place is strangely hypnotic: watching the old man go through his unrushed, painstaking routine is one of the city's most pacific experiences. At least I think it is; but I also like to sit around in strip clubs, listening to the Scorpions and pretending to be invisible.

Still, most of the Di Fara's crowd is more than happy to wait their turn. Eventually they'll get their slice, and the rustling crackle of fresh crust and soft, supple, oily sauce, commingled with the milky tang of buffalo mozzarella and dense richness of grande, and the liberal festooning over both with sharp, pungent grana padano, will make it all worth while.

Unless some asshole decides to order more than his share.

I've seen this happen on numerous occasions, and never without an inward curse at the temerity of the person. Today's culprit was a mischievous little fat boy, with a greedy cast and a twinkle in his eye. "I want four slices," the little pisher yelled. De Marco doesn't attend to the needs of customers himself, considering that secondary to his work as an artist. So today it was his eldest daughter, Maggie, who was taking the orders. Maggie is gentle and quiet, with a beleagured sensibility that seems never to have adjusted to Dom's maddening slowness. She never says no.  But I could see her heart sink.  She feels the frustration of waiting customers worse than the customers do. "It's going to be a few minutes," she says euphemistically when someone asks for a slice. It really kills her that they have to wait. "Is there a slice pie coming out?" she asks Dom, who grunts and nods. "What about those two squares?" Dominick has his hands full, meanwhile, making sure that exactly the right amount of fresh basil is scissor cut onto the pizza, and properly distributed on top of the snowstorm of grana; he's made a lot of pizzas, and isn't upset if someone has to wait a few extra minutes for one.

The saintly Maggie, though, does feel bad about it. "I'm sorry," she'll say. "We get really backed up." And it's true, they do -- there are seven people waiting on slices, and this little pisher expects to take half a pizza for himself! The effrontery of it is so staggering it almost seems to border on sociopathic -- like eating all the fruit from a Red Cross drop meant a dozen families.

So the thought occurs to me again. Why not a slice limit? Maggie can't say no to anyone, and hates to deliver bad news. But if it were written on a sign on the peach-colored wall, she could just point to it: "Limit 2 Slices When Busy." I would paint it myself, with an unsteady but forceful hand.  Maybe even an exclamation mark.  But then, imposing bureaucratic order on Di Fara's seems wrong -- it would be like training a cat to heel. When the pizza did come out, and was distributed to a fraction of its applicant pool, one man joked, "that pizza's like a paycheck that's already spent," and everybody laughed.  The urgency of mindless, thrwarted desire gets left at the door here somehow.  It's one of the things I love about the place.

But I'll be damned if I let that fat boy pull that trick again.