Upper crust and kids alike served well at Motus
“We should leave a 30 percent tip,” declared my young friend Rubi as we finished up our Italian ices at Pizza Motus, the Roman-style pizza specialist in West University Place.
Rubi, 9, and her sister, Amina, 6, love to calculate 20 percent tips, and as our meal wound down, they were firing off totals for tab amounts tossed out by their dad. They were better at it than most adults. But our cheerful young server that night — who typified the sweet and swift service at this charming neighborhood spot — had gone above and beyond in the girls’ eyes.
We had been discussing cats because I have a small herd, all brothers, and the girls love animals. It was a slow night early in the week, and we were sitting
near the front counter where you place your orders, so the server overheard us. She popped by the table to tell us that there was now a cat cafe in Houston, where guests can consort with resident felines, to the girls’ delight and astonishment.
That was just one factor in the evening’s success. I don’t usually dine with children, so it was instructive for me to see Pizza Motus through Rubi and Amina’s eyes. Kids are a significant demographic at this new restaurant, across from an elementary school in an area rife with young families.
But the restaurant’s crisp good looks and idiosyncratic take on the pizza genre attract prosperous empty-nesters and singles in a hurry, too. With cool music, no-corkage BYOB and a light-strung front patio that could be airlifted from a Roman square, it’s no Chuck E. Cheese’s.
I wouldn’t call Pizza Motus a destination restaurant — not yet, anyway — but it’s one of those neighborhood amenities that make a city more livable. The “Roman pizza” hook adds personality and a bit of history, too. Owner and West U resident Will Gruy, a former professional motorcycle racer, spent 12 years growing up in Rome, where he learned to love the rectangular pies called pizza al taglio, sold by the slice according to weight.
At his Pizza Motus project, a fresh batch of assorted rectangular slices beckons from a front takeout window. Indoors, with red terra cotta tiles below and whitewashed ceiling trusses above, you can order a slice at the counter; or a personal pizza of four such slices; or a large 24-by-16-inch pizza said to be big
enough for five to six adults.
It’s not cheap, at an average $12.50 to $13.50 for a personal pie. But the ingredients are good, and the four-slice personal pizza is more than enough for one average person, with a slice left over for a midnight snack. The substantial single slices proved to be supper enough, with some deftly fried calamari and shrimp, for the kids in our party.
The pizza can be quite good, too. On my first visit, I was worried by a badly (as in inedibly) scorched bottom crust on one slice and a central ribbon of uncooked dough in a couple of others. “They’re not in control of their crust yet,” I thought to myself, remembering how in the early days of Coltivare, its cushy, foccacia-like crusts sometimes had that raw-dough-in-the-middle effect.
Well, Coltivare tweaked proportions and temperatures to the point that its pizzas came fully into their own. And over the course of four visits, I sensed Pizza Motus doing the same.
At first, I wasn’t going to return at all. But then a discerning friend encouraged me to try again, and I’m glad I did. Lately my pizzas have turned out crisp and crackly on the outside, airy and light on the inside — neither burned nor partly raw. They’ve thinned the crust down, for one thing, so it cooks all the way through. And the toppings, astride sparingly applied tomato sauce or a bit of olive oil, show a freshness and lightness I have
come to appreciate.
Consider the eggplant Parmesan pizza. It could be gloppy and gooey and overcheesed. Instead it’s a marvel of restraint: layered with impossibly thin slices of roasted eggplant over a touch of marinara, with an airy net of shaved Parmesan wisps riding on top. Really simple and effective.
So is a Caprese pizza spangled with blobs of burrata, big basil leaves and roasted grape tomatoes that pop with flavor and juice. This is one of the designated “white pizzas,” and for those craving something a bit less austere, it can be had as an off-menu Margherita pie, with a base swipe of marinara. I like to order it with a little plastic tub of basil pesto on the side because Pizza Motus’s version of pesto has an irresistible punch to it.
I like the traditional fennelspiked sausage pizza, too, with its bed of melty cheese; and the untraditional La Francesca “white pizza” topped with an unruly salad of grape tomatoes, marinated artichokes, arugula leaves, kalamata olives and lemon zest. With nothing to hold these ingredients to the crust, eating it can be a mess and can lead to deep thoughts on what the relationship should be between a pizzas crust and its toppings. Still, it’s delicious.
So there are sophisticated options for grown-ups and basic choices such as cheese or pepperoni pizza for youngsters. That’s what Rubi and Amina ordered — and polished off happily.
As grown-ups do, their father and I urged them to broaden their horizons. Their dad loves anchovies, so we challenged Rubi — who had declared, when she heard that the newspaper paid for my meals — that she wanted to be a restaurant critic.
“You can’t just eat the food you like when you’re a critic,” her father advised her, dangling an anchovy across the table. She bit. She made a face. She uttered a disgusted noise. “Use your words,” her dad prodded. (He’s an editor by trade.) So Rubi jotted some descriptions down in her notebook.
“Taste? Anchobie,” it read. And then, in all caps: “Too salty, overfishy.” I had to laugh since I realized part of my self-appointed task as a critic is to persuade people to sample foodstuffs they might otherwise avoid. It’s a steep hill.
Part of what gives Pizza Motus its edge is the presence of some unusual pizza-parlor items on its well-edited menu, which hangs on a waxed brown paper scroll behind the service counter. Beet hummus is one, a deep magenta iteration of the Mediterranean chickpea dip that has been made with good-quality olive oil and what I thought was a fragrant tinge of lemon zest. Scooped up with pizza-dough fingers, it’s a fun starter for a group. (Or a treat to take home; the take-out game is nicely packaged and efficient here.)
Another unexpected beginning: artichoke dip, that 20thcentury
staple, with a wild mustardy edge that removes it from the predictable. It’s even better with a little flock of optional crispy prosciutto curls strewn across the surface.
For the West U moms in upmarket exercise wear, there’s even a brisk Mediterranean farro salad, the pearled wheat grains jumped up with tomato and radish and cucumber and goat cheese and marinated artichoke, to be dressed with tart lemon and oregano.
It’s not at all bad. Still, I don’t come to a pizza place to eat a good-for-you salad of ancient grains. In a more Rubi-esque mode, I might have written in my notebook thusly: “TOO HEALTHFUL, OVER-VIRTUOUS.”
But that sounds too sour, considering how Pizza Motus disarmed me. The blue interior shutters that impart a cottage look to the pale, pretty room; the earnest library of pizza books; the strings of white lights dappling the picnic tables out front; the black-and-white photo of bathing beauties, inscribed “Bayou Club 1947,” that I would kill to own. It’s all part of a package that fits ever so neatly into its Houston niche. And that’s a quality that matters.