This is Sam's, an unsung landmark of Cobble Hill. Perhaps unsung because the service is so surly and I-don't-give-a-fuck if you don't happen to be a local Capo or something. Haven't been there in a while. Last time, we ordered a specific kind of pizza, one that my wife—who doesn't eat certain things—could eat. They brought out a different pizza entirely, one she couldn't eat. We pointed this out. The waiter shrugged and walked away. It's the kind of staff that doesn't like a lot of SMART guys comin' round and trying to be CUTE by axing QUESTIONS.
The specialty is brick-oven pizza and it's not bad. A bit sloppy, but tasty and sincere. There's are read leather booths and long tables; one public front room and a private room in the back. Lotsa fake plants, as I recall, and Virgin Mary statuettes. One big plus: they serve not just wine and beer, but cocktails. And I mean cocktails, old school ones like Rob Roys, served in the small martini glasses of yore, not the wading pools bars use today.
The storefront, however, is the greatest. Gold stenciling on the second floor windows. "Steaks" and "Chops" printed on blue glass above the lower windows, with neon spelling out "Brick Oven Pizza" below that. A square, white flourescent sign above it all, hanging at a perpendicular angle. The whole package is a work of art. Makes me smile every time I walk by it.