Frank the person doesn't exist. But, blessedly, Frank’s Pizza does

If an influencer doesn’t post about a restaurant, does it even exist? Discovery is usually vertical video, where visuals, quick edits, and ear-pleasing chomping sounds are more important than the quality of the food. The PR agencies and the food video influencers, for most of them, quality is unfortunately an afterthought, as places, rightfully, mind you, try to stand out in a crowded food world.

Which is why when I bite into a massive slice of pizza, a beautifully adorned, delicately but crispy dough, salty pepperonis, with dollops of stracciatella and loosely laid basil leaves, I was annoyed, angry even, about why this pizza spot wasn’t getting more attention. 

It was spring of this year. A failed attempt for a late lunch at Angela Pastificio and Emmaline's had us needing something fast. Tucked into the corner around Commercial on Franklin Street, next to a ceramics manufacturer and across the street from a restaurant food equipment company, was Frank’s at 1672 Franklin St., a pizza restaurant inside Ressurection Spirits.  

What’s lost in our Instagram feeds, just beyond the frame of the food close-ups, is the people who make up a place. You won’t see them featured often in those videos. I never caught the server’s name, but her bubbly excitement and energy, a feeling that she believed her spot had something good to prove, didn’t fit the spot’s casual, laid-back vibe. The pizza she proudly proclaimed was the best. 

The menu includes a few sharing plates, like meatballs, olives and arugula salad. Piled high with stringy strands of delicate parmesan, the tangy flavour of Meyer lemon ranch paired well with the bitter arugula greens. A well-done salad, if a little pricey at $19 for the size. 

According to the owners in different interviews, Frank himself does not exist. But there’s nothing more real than when a server drops a 15-inch pizza in front of you. Frank’s pizzas are massive, a hulking table-sized round of baked dough that even the hungriest person will struggle to finish. At around $26-$32 per pizza, it’s not necessarily cheap, but to put it another way, split at $15 for two people, it’s a great deal.

If Frank did exist, I’d imagine his home as the opposite of minimal modernism, with walls full of mix-sized pictures, counters overstrewn with knick-knacks, books stacked haphazardly, a place embracing maximalism.

I’d imagine him taking inspiration from that as he crafted each pizza recipe. Frank’s pizzas are creative. Silk Tracksuit features both cacio e pepe cream and vodka sauce, with meatballs, roasted cherry tomatoes and stracciatella cheese. Don the Jeweller, a mismatched white pie of charred scallion cream, fennel sausage, pickled green chillies and fresh pineapple. 

We ordered the Bee Sting, featuring San Marzano tomatoes, pepperoni, pickled green chilies, red onion, stracciattelle cheese, honey drizzle and fresh basil. Maybe a more subdued maximalism than the other pies. But there was nothing subdued about the flavours, each bite treading a perfect line between sweet, salty, and fatty.

What’s also lost in our Instagram feeds, of dead cheery-eyed straight-faced positivity, is any sort of negative note.

In our case, the pizza tasted off as we progressed, a slight sourness that was hard to discern. It turns out the Parmesan cheese we had liberally shaken onto our slice had gone bad. The server apologized profusely. A slight detour that, frankly, pun intended, did nothing to take away from the experience. 

Yet, for how great the ingredients worked together — and let me tell you, someone, but not Frank, most likely executive chef Travis McCord — it was the dough that stood out.

I was told by McCord over email that they’re serving Brooklyn-style pizza. It’s a crispier, thinner, and bigger version of New York, though there’s a debate about whether Brooklyn-style pizza is actually a real thing. It’s closer to Straight Brooklyn Pizza, than a Via Tavere.

The flavour profile is noticeable. While others let the ingredients do the talking, the dough has had enough fermentation to have its own distinct taste. It ranks up there with some of the best in the city. The cook was well done, crispy and crunchy, speckled with charred flakes, with a well-sculpted crust.

When I asked for even a small detail about the dough — fermentation temperature or technique, flour used, resting period, literally anything — executive chef Travis McCord told me “that’s our secret.” In today’s social media world, you have to respect a place’s commitment to secrecy.

McCord claimed in our email exchange that they weren’t “reinventing the wheel.” That may be true, in the sense that generally speaking, pizzas don’t innovate all that much. But here in Vancouver, Frank’s is setting the standard for a certain type of pizza, with a rare combination of ingredients and dough. 

Frank the person doesn’t exist, but Frank’s the pizza spot certainly does. The influencers have seen to that, with more videos popping up each day praising those 16-inch pies. It’s one of those rare moments where the online praise does indeed match the quality of the food.