Man, Rubino’s Pizza totally rules. It’s likely you’ve never had pizza with a crust so thin. Imagine a saltine, cut in half horizontally and dusted with cornmeal on the bottom. Physics dictates that there can’t be much added to a slice so slight, so the sweet sauce and small blobs of mozzarella don’t add much weight to the pizza. You know it’s gonna be crispy given its low profile. When you order it to-go, it comes in a bag. A bag. It’s a crime that I’m not eating some right now…
I promise that will be it with my attempts to describe the quality of the pizza because this documentary on Jim Marchese, the current proprietor of Rubino’s Pizza in Bexley, Ohio, doesn’t focus as much on the pizza as it does the institution, the man, the spot. A pizza place that can survive 70 years of changes around it must be doing something right with its food and its vibe. It has never expanded, never franchised, never relocated. Jim recalls a moment when a woman opened the door and inhaled deeply, then left. She “just wanted to smell Rubino’s.” To me, that sounds like torture, but it says something about the quality of the place that a single sense memory can be so powerful.
Early in the film, we learn that the original concept of Rubino’s came from founder Ruben Cohen who thought maybe his name might not give an indication of authentic Italian food. Thus, Ruben became Rubino’s for the sake of marketing and there’s never been a reason to doubt the quality of the product. Jim’s father bought the business when the original owner retired and Jim helped his dad run it and has been the man in charge ever since.
The film is a tribute to him as he grows closer to aging out of the ability to run the shop. He’s got stage four kidney cancer, which has returned after being in remission 15 years ago. His daughter, Julie, is ready to step up when the time comes. Working in a family business is often a way for managers to easily manipulate and exploit those closest to them. That doesn’t seem to be the situation at Rubino’s. There’s a moment when Julie has to take a breath and step outside because things are getting a little hectic behind the counter. It’s not like that is a situation unique to family-run foodservice. Julie’s candor in her responses and her work ethic both indicate that she will do an excellent job of running the show when its her turn at the reins.
That attitude, surliness, or “jive,” is part of the appeal of going to Rubino’s in the first place. Yeah, the food is excellent, but Jim’s demeanor is an attraction in itself. The film does an excellent job of expressing this trait of his. It’s subtle, but there’s a shot where he answers the phone (there is only one phone at Rubino’s) by pounding the receiver with the fat of his fist so it flips into his hand. It’s so slick. Stay at Rubino’s long enough on a night when they’re slammed and you can be treated to the sight of Jim hitting the counter itself hard enough to launch the receiver into his hand. The coordination required to pull that off is remarkable.
Despite the gruff way he comes off in the film and in real life, Jim is a sweetheart. Julie explains how he has quietly helped customers’ families with college payments or medical bills over the years. That kind of support to people who have patronized this business for decades is why people get misty-eyed when thinking of local small-business owners. Jim represents the apotheosis of that type of dude running that kind of shop, and as Abrams reveals in Jim, the secret recipe is “40% pizza, 60% bullshit.” So, the pizza gets you in the door but the bullshit keeps you coming back over and over again.
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