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In The Land of Beach Pizza
As a Jersey guy, I caught all the familiar summer feels driving into Hampton, New Hampshire. The briny aroma, a sudden pocket of stinky fish air chased with a clean breeze…it could have been home.
Even Ocean Boulevard, which stretches along the coast from the Granite State into Massachusetts and beyond, felt like the Jersey Shore. Seafood shacks, t-shirt shops, families walking from their motels to the beach. No big rides, and probably a lot less hair gel, but I knew this life.
I was in the midst of a 15-hour New England whirlwind when I pulled into town with one purpose—to try the mythological Beach Pizza, a hyper-local style native to Salisbury, Mass. and only a few neighboring beach towns across the border.
My first stop was Cristy’s—not the original, but damn close.
Through the open-air takeout window, I spied a rectangular pie, scarcely cheesed but otherwise “normal” looking.
Then I saw it.
A worker started tossing slices of provolone across the pizza like she was setting up a game of checkers, then turned to the couple in front of me.
“You said eight with extra cheese, right?”
I watched as the heat softened, but never quite melted, the provolone—not enough to disguise what it was though: a perfectly positioned single slice of deli cheese stamped right onto the top.
Rectangular—yet neither Sicilian nor grandma—with sweet tomato sauce and a scant dusting of mozzarella, that unmistakable circle of provolone only comes if you ask for extra cheese, which, judging by the line behind me, was a must.
Could’ve Been Called…
Despite the name, Beach Pizza was born about 20 miles from the ocean. Apparently Suburban Pizza didn’t have the same ring to it. Ha.
Angelo Zappala first added pizza to the offerings at his Tripoli Bakery in Lawrence, Mass. in 1944. Baked in rectangular pans with a thin crust, sweet tomato sauce and just a light dusting of cheese, the new creation quickly became a hit.
But when summer came, business in Lawrence slowed as people headed for the coast.
So Tripoli followed them.
On Memorial Day 1945, the Zappalas opened a small, garage-door-style pizza stand at Salisbury Beach. The unusual square slices caught on with the summer crowds and eventually picked up the inevitable name: Beach Pizza.
Then, in March 1946, Cristy’s opened nearby, serving its own version under the same name. Two takeout pizza stands selling the same thing—almost.
I was expecting to uncover some great Ryan Murphy-stylized Hatfield-McCoy pizza blood feud. Instead, I watched as lines of sun worshippers picked their side, the same way they have for decades.
No drama—just two neighboring pizza shops with fiercely loyal camps and nearly 80 years of customers arguing over which one makes Beach Pizza better.
“Too sweet.” “Not sweet enough.” “This one has a better undercarriage.”
Everyone had an opinion. So I had to take the Pepsi Challenge.
First bite—Tripoli’s sweet sauce, almost ketchup-y, immediately gave me pause. I pushed down my inner Jersey, who was ready to bust out, and reached for Cristy’s.
A more traditional, herb-forward sauce and an overly charred crust. The wilted provolone on each added an unexpected layer of creaminess. Without the extra cheese, it wouldn’t be the same.
This wasn’t the Boardwalk Pizza I grew up on. It might not even be pizza…
But it was good. Almost addictive.
I chomped the two slices like Pac-Man watching a tennis match. I understood why I saw people carrying three and four slices back to their beach chairs.
Over the years, more traditional New York-style pizza shops have popped up along the beach, giving vacationers plenty of familiar options.
But Tripoli and Cristy’s are still here. Never left!
Still making the same peculiar rectangular slices. Still painting them with sweet sauce. Still laying that unmistakable circle of provolone on top.
And still sending generations of families back across the sand with three or four slices balanced in their hands.
Beach Pizza isn't trying to be Boardwalk Pizza. Because in Massachusetts it's the beach, not the shore.
