Buddy’s Rendezvous, now simply known as Buddy’s Pizza, opened in 1936 as a neighborhood bar on the east side of Detroit. It wasn’t until 1946 that something revolutionary slid out of its kitchen: a rectangular pizza with a light, airy crust, caramelized cheese edges, and ladles of sauce spooned on top after the cheese. It was familiar, but also completely new. A Motor City original.
The mastermind was a Sicilian immigrant named Gus Guerra, who, along with chef Concetta “Connie” Piccinato, decided to tweak the traditional Sicilian-style pizza into something uniquely Detroit. Instead of round dough tossed in the air, the pizza was pressed into blue steel pans—industrial trays originally used to hold parts and scrap in local auto factories. They were square, heavy, and perfect for achieving the crust’s signature crispy bottom and chewy interior.
But the real innovation came from the cheese.
Rather than stopping at the middle, Buddy’s layered Wisconsin brick cheese all the way to the edge. When baked, it bubbled and crisped against the steel pan, creating the signature cheese-crowned crust that distinguishes Detroit-style from all its cousins. And the sauce? That was the final touch—not the base, but the crown. Thick ribbons of tangy tomato laid on top like red racing stripes.
It’s pizza flipped upside down. Mechanically inspired. Unapologetically rectangular. As Detroit as a steel bumper and a Motown bassline.
From that first corner tavern, the style slowly spread. Locals became loyalists. Tourists became converts. By the 2010s, the rest of the country started catching on. What was once a neighborhood quirk was suddenly on menus in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, each slice served like a postcard from the Rust Belt. Even Pizza Hut launched its own version—though purists would argue you can’t mass-produce something born of grit and craft.
Today, Buddy’s Pizza has grown into a chain with multiple locations, but the original shop on Conant Street still serves the classic: square pies, thick crust, crispy corners, sauce on top. You can still sit at the counter where it all began and taste the revolution that came out of a borrowed steel tray.
To eat Detroit-style pizza is to eat history baked in layers: immigrant ingenuity, industrial improvisation, Midwestern hospitality. It’s hot, heavy, and honest. And like Detroit itself, it’s not trying to impress you with flash. It’s trying to feed you. Sustain you. Maybe even surprise you.
And when you bite into that crackling edge, where cheese meets steel and crust meets fire, you realize something:
This isn’t just pizza.
It’s Detroit—with a crunch.