The pizza universe has ballooned to a beast of epic proportions. From technically perfect Neapolitan pies to ultra-crisp ones in the style of Brooklyn to the thick, chewy grandma (also known as Detroit) pies — it seems we've forgotten the humble pie that, while it might not rest upon the upper echelons of culinary achievement, is quite capable of providing speedy, utilitarian delight the likes of which are unmatched, and never for five bucks a slice. Such joy awaits in a blood-red and taxicab-yellow bungalow on Gramps' patio, where at lunchtime during the week a five-spot buys you not one but two slices, plus a Coke. The crust has just the right crunch. The cheese is the stretchy lava of your dreams. The sauce is fragrant and barely sweet. Sure, the joint's cheeky motto is "Hot Pizza, Cuban Coffee, Bogus Claims," but what you really get is a flashback to the days when life, and pizza, were simpler.