Restaurant Review: Pizza Capo

Let’s talk about pizza.

Not the kind you fold into a limp triangle and eat with one hand while driving down I-5. Not the one-size-fits-all, corporate-crusted cardboard that survives longer under a heat lamp than most houseplants. I’m talking about real pizza. Pizza with heart. Pizza that tastes like someone gave a damn. That’s Pizza Capo in McMinnville, Oregon. Now, I won’t pretend to be a historian on this place. I can’t tell you what inspired the original dough recipe or which of the four founding guys first said “screw it, let’s build a wood-fired oven.” But I can tell you what it’s like to eat there. And maybe more importantly, what it feels like. I’ve got no stake in this. I don’t work with them. I’m not trying to grease palms or curry favor. This isn’t one of those winks-and-nods reviews you see from someone who got their tab comped or walked out with a T-shirt. This is just an honest reflection from a guy who’s been going for a few years now and has never left unsatisfied. Pizza Capo is what I’d call a pizza lover’s pizza. Not because it’s stacked a mile high with toppings or dusted in truffle oil. Because it respects the crust. The oven. The process. It’s also what I’d call a winemaker’s pizza—balanced, restrained, but with punch and personality. The kind of thing that plays nice with a glass of Willamette Pinot but could hold its own against a heavy red from Italy. The kind of thing that doesn’t yell for your attention but earns it. There’s no giant sign out front screaming authentic Neapolitan! or real New York slice!—thank God. There’s no pretend accent at the register. No desperate need to shove itself into some regional box to earn your respect. Pizza Capo is comfortable in its own skin. Confident in what it does. And what it does is make some of the best damn pizza I’ve had in Oregon.

They use local ingredients the way local ingredients should be used—fresh, seasonal, not overdone. Each pie is made to order and comes out blistered just right from the wood-fired oven, crust with that elusive balance of chew and char. There’s creativity on the menu, but it never feels like someone’s throwing ingredients at a wall just to go viral on TikTok. These are thoughtful, well-practiced combinations that work because someone tested them—over and over and over again.

Now, let’s talk hospitality, because this is where Capo starts to feel like a revelation. Every single visit—and I’m not exaggerating here—I’ve been met with kindness, precision, and ease. The water’s already on the table before I can think to ask. Service is dialed-in, but not robotic. Relaxed, but not aloof. It’s the kind of hospitality that doesn’t feel taught—it feels lived in. And yes, the food comes out fast. Faster than it has any right to, honestly, especially considering the level of quality. You’d think it would be one of those trade-offs: speed vs. care. But not here. Somehow, impossibly, they’ve nailed both.

There’s one pizza I keep coming back to. My parents, too. We’ve probably eaten it a dozen times each and still haven’t found a reason to stray. The meatball pizza (first picture). House pork meatballs—juicy, salty, beautiful. Garlic, red onion, basil. Smoked mozzarella. Dollops of ricotta. And then there’s that Calabrian chili honey. My God. That honey. Sweet, spicy, and perfectly balanced—it ties the whole thing together like a well-written final sentence. I’ve told friends I want to be embalmed in the stuff. I’m only half-joking.

What makes this all even more impressive is how quietly they do it. There’s no showboating. No PR blitz. Just a team of people who know what they’re doing and enjoy doing it well. They even make a gluten-free crust that doesn’t suck—a minor miracle in the world of glutenless bread products. It’s actually good. Like, I’d order it voluntarily good.

So here’s what I’ll say: if you find yourself anywhere remotely near McMinnville—45 minutes, hell, even an hour—it’s worth the drive. Skip the strip mall chains. Skip the algorithm-recommended “hidden gems” with fake charm and Yelp-filtered lighting. Go to Capo. Sit down. Order something that sounds good. Maybe ask about the off-menu specials—they’re usually worth it. Then just take it all in.

This place, these people—they know who they are. They know where they come from. And they know exactly who they’re serving.

To the folks at Capo: if you’re reading this, first of all—thank you. Second of all—let’s talk. Because whatever you’ve built, it’s working. And I, for one, am damn glad you did.

Photos and writing by Avery Hadley