The nay-sayers—and we were among them—feared that San Antonio would never cotton to a vera pizzeria napoletana, accustomed as we are to twofer specials and cheese-stuffed crusts. But there are lines out the door for lunch at Dough, and the party’s only truly over when the house-made mozzarella and burrata run out. We stand corrected—and frequently in line.

The oven, shipped over from Naples, turns out pretty much everything but the cheese and salads: the oak-roasted mushroom bruschetta, roasted olives, sausage,… [More]

Jones’ address is east of St. Philip’s College in a kind of no-man’s land. The building is a somewhat disquieting shade of dried-blood red, and, in a departure from the norm, there’s no outside dining. No order window, either; you must penetrate the interior, and at first it’s almost akin to stepping across the threshold of a dive geared more to beer and broads than barbecue and sweet tea. The inside, too, is dark red.

But shades of CSI quickly fade… [More]