Pizzeria Badiali

A Slice of the Real

Bill King Photography

April 2 and 3 were split in two in Toronto: the first was a howler of a day—sleet, sideways snow, and wind that could peel the bark off a tree. The next? Sun-drenched calm and a warm breath from the south, brushing off winter’s final punch. I looked at Kristine, both of us cabin-weary, and knew this was the call to lace up, walk it off, and find something real. Something hot. Something pizza.

Now, let me explain. We’ve done the circuit: Terroni’s, always reliable with the Margherita, or Trattoria Mercatto’s Diavola—fiery soppressata. But there are only so many days one can justify dropping seventy dollars for a bit of crust and sauce. We needed good. We needed cheap. We needed new.

Then came the ghost of a headline—somewhere, scrolling through the digital avalanche of ads and influencers, a pizza shop in Toronto had ranked ninth in a North American competition. Ninth? In a field that spans Hollywood to Geary Avenue, that’s no small feat. I didn’t save the link (a rookie mistake), but the name rattled in my memory. So, I let the trip advisors call the shots - Badiali.

Pizzeria Badiali, tucked neatly at 181 Dovercourt Road near Argyle Street, is the kind of place you don’t stumble into—you hunt it down. It's slightly off-Queen West, just far enough to avoid the tourist sprawl but known to the locals who live for the fold. The shop is the collective brainchild of Nick Halligan, Owen Walker, and the dough-whisperer himself, Ryan Baddeley, who helms the counter like a master of ceremonies at a pizza tent revival.

We arrived post-hibernation, mid-afternoon on the first real day of spring, and the vibe hit us immediately—slice shop energy. Not the manufactured, mural-painting, Edison-bulb type, but a genuine churn-and-burn spot that moves fast and feeds faster. People pile in, grab a box, lean on a rail, and go. A real New York-style rhythm.

Prices? Reasonable. Slices from $5 to $7. Whole pies $24 to $32. Options are focused: Original Cheese, Margherita, Pepperoni, Vodka Pie. No pineapples or pulled pork, thank you very much. We went Pepperoni, and hot salami and peppers.

But let’s talk crust. Because if the soul of a pizza lives anywhere, it’s in the crust. This was the kind of crust that folds without splitting, holds without flopping, and has that whisper of a crackle when you bite in. The dough speaks before the toppings do. It’s the stuff of street dreams—charred just right, with enough tooth to satisfy and enough give to cradle the melt.

Kristine’s first bite came with a declaration: “Best damn pizza anywhere.” She didn’t mean Canada. She meant anywhere. She’s not one for hyperbole; growing up in New York, she knows pizza. That crust had her testifying like she’d found religion.

All told—three slices and a ginger ale for about twenty bucks. No sticker shock, just satisfaction. No waitstaff fawning, just a crew that grins, hands you hot food, and gets back to the business of feeding the city. The place pumps out two to three hundred pies a day, and the oven never cools. You taste that momentum in every bite.

The geeks? They’ve given it 4.7 stars on the ratings boards. I’d say that’s about right. But some things aren’t measured in decimals or Yelp blurbs. Some things you know when you taste them.

Badiali is one of those things.