The ancient brick oven looms like an incinerator, occupying most of the claustrophobic kitchen.

Pizza worshippers have told tales of this monolithic wall of clay and steel. For more than 60 years, it’s baked many of the most deliciously distinctive Sicilian, pan and tomato pies prepared in New Jersey — and if your pizza is the best here, it’s the best anywhere, full stop.

The oven is “a gift from the gods,” says Al Santillo, keeper of the legendary kiln and owner of vaunted Santillo’s Brick Oven Pizza on Broad Street in Elizabeth — a mecca of mozzarella, semolina and San Marzanos hiding just a half-mile off Exit 13 on the Turnpike.

Santillo’s has slung pies and bread in the city for more than 100 years, and the little shop has changed only marginally over the last half-century.

There are no tables or chairs here. Al doesn’t serve slices and he doesn’t deliver. Santillo’s is cash only and serves just four days a week: Thursday through Sunday.

Take your order and go, or stick around and chat with Santillo himself, the idiosyncratic pizza savant who, after more than 30 years at the helm, has no problem reveling in his food’s superiority.

“This pizza, it’s in a league of its own compared to every other place that you go,” Al says. “It’s just that much better.”

Over the years, Santillo’s has been named the best pizza in New Jersey by a plethora of outlets, ranging from The Daily Meal and Inside Jersey magazine to NJ.com’s own pizza power rankings back in 2015. And I’d heard stories of Santillo and the spartan work schedule he maintains to keep this glorious pizza palace afloat.

But I had never met him, never tried any of his pies before one day in late July, when I decided to spend a full, 14-hour shift with the pizza man to end all pizza men. I even learned to make some of the legendary pies myself.

Let’s start at the beginning.

9:07 a.m.

Pizza dough at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

Yellow semolina flour is everywhere, strewn across the long stainless steel countertop in the small back room as Al sorts the dough — square cuts for Sicilian pies, circular for round, one heap after another. He is dressed like a construction worker headed to a taekwondo class in his black t-shirt, cargo shorts, work boots and a black cloth headband.

Al asks me to assist in the tedium that is shaping the dough into mushy balls and loading them into their corresponding wooden boxes. I attempt to oblige but frustrate him immediately.

“You ain’t even close,” Al tells me after a few attempts. “What you’re doing’s not good.”

Al would clone himself if he could; his distrust of help a constant refrain, even in front of his three coworkers.

“I have helpers that come in, but they’re very unreliable,” Santillo bemoans. “Even back when I was a kid, I always remember my parents trying to hire people, and the question is, ‘Are you reliable?’ … You don’t have to be no rocket scientist but at least you’ve got to be reliable. So I’ve got to figure out ways where I can do as much as I can myself. I’m not looking to raise the price of the pizza 10 dollars so that I can have a bunch of prima donnas walking around here.”

Al runs Santillo’s more or less on his own. He’s preparing and cooking pizzas and breads, answering phone calls and dealing with customers in perpetuity.

And you better believe he’s the only one who operates his legendary oven.

“My father told me to do it yourself when I started all those years ago,” Al says.

9:34 a.m.

Italian bread ready to be baked at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

Al uses his finger to draw a map of the neighborhood in the golden flour, depicting the location of the first Santillo’s — open in 1918 by his grandfather, Lou Santillo — about a mile away in a heavily Italian-American section of Elizabeth known as Peterstown. It was an operation similar to the one Al runs at the current shop, though Lou didn’t start making pizza until the 1940s – bread was the focus back then.

Today, Al serves many customers whose grandparents used to bring homemade dough to Lou’s bakery because they didn’t have ovens of their own. Al’s father opened the current Santillo’s location — down an alleyway, attached to the house in which Al was raised — in 1957 and little Al started working there when he was only 5 years old, selling bread door-to-door in the neighborhood out of a little red American Flyer wagon, trying to sneak a peek into local bars. To this day he considers himself a baker, not a pizza man.

He took over the shop in the 1980s and was raised in the adjoining house in front of the store.

Al tells me the old store was very close to Di Cosmo’s Italian Ice, another enduring city institution he still frequents — he sometimes mixes his afternoon coffee with the ice.

“That gives me my little lift for the evening,” Santillo says. “This place is brutal. You see the way I’ve got to work.”

10:46 a.m.

The decades-old oven at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

Al formally introduces the only Santillo’s employee more important than himself — the incredible oven. He talks about it like it’s a person. The “gift from the gods” and “the Sistine Chapel of ovens,” as he calls it, has been used at Santillo’s since its ‘57 opening. He says it took three years to construct and every brick was custom cut to build its low-arched ceiling.

“Dutchess Tool Company, Beacon N.Y.” is stamped on the timeworn metal above the oven’s deceptively small opening, which gives way to 160 square feet of 600-degree bricks, the ideal conditions for making pizza. The arched ceiling looks more like a work of art than an oven.

Al wields an array of lengthy peals — pizza paddles attached to long wooden poles — to navigate the depths of the oven. He nearly impales me the first time he uses one, to clean the oven from the night before.

His technique is beyond strange — he ties a wet pair of pants to the pole with a rope and whips it in a circle using “centrifugal force” to allegedly sanitize the oven.

“People think it’s dirty, but it’s not,” Al says. “That water is just flour and cornmeal in there.”

10:50 a.m.

Al brews us a pot of coffee and serves me two small styrofoam cups. He sprinkles some beef gelatin into his and offers me some — it’s good for his joints, he says.

11:02 a.m.

The exterior view of Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

While organizing the pizza preparation station at the front of the kitchen, Al laments that Elizabeth is in disrepair. He mentions St. Mary of the Assumption, a high school about a half-mile up the road, that closed its doors earlier this summer. This leads to one of Al’s many existential rants.

“I’m on the dead-end part of town where nothing’s progressing and everything’s dying,” Santillo says. “The Catholic schools are all dying. The good Italian restaurants that have been around for 100 years, dying. I’m just trying to stay here as long as I can because it would hurt me if the place had to close up. I could probably rent the building out for more than I’m making over here.

“What’s the endgame gonna be? I’m gonna stay here until I can’t do it no more, then I’m gonna worry about it. If I die here, let the next person worry about whatever’s going to happen. They’re gonna sell the place, whatever happens, it ain’t going to be my problem. I hope I can stay here until the end.”

There is no clear succession plan for Santillo’s once Al leaves. He has two adult sons, but they’re not bakers, he says. The family’s rich pizza tradition could end with him.

11:40 a.m.

After nearly three hours of preparation, Al finally makes a pizza. Customers used to come in and ask him to make them a pizza like his father or grandfather made back in the day, inspiring Al to name specialty pies after the year in which they were popular.

The 1940 pie has no cheese, only Al’s classic pizza sauce, while the 1948 has sauce plus grated parmesan, no mozzarella. The 1957 is extra thin and the 1959 is a thick crust topped with extra sauce.

The menu features more than 20 different pies and can be intimidating for even the most hardcore pizza fans. Al recommends two pies to anyone who doesn’t know what to order. The 1964 is their standard pie, topped with mozzarella and Pecorino Romano — a sharp, salty cheese made from 100 percent sheep's milk — and an extra swirl of their rich, savory tomato sauce over the cheese, plus parmesan and olive oil. The 2011 pie is their take on a margarita pizza, with shredded mozzarella going down first before being dotted with San Marzano tomatoes.

But Al is making something special for his own lunch: his 2020 “top of the line” pie, which is essentially a combination of the two signature pies. To switch things up, he's putting it on a square crust.

11:54 p.m.

A 2020 pie bakes in the oven at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

As the 2020 pie cooks, Al pontificates about the hottest trend in pizza right now: Neapolitan style.

He loathes these smaller, doughy pizzas that highly acclaimed restaurants like Razza in Jersey City and Talula’s in Asbury Park have made immensely popular.

“Don’t even get me started on them,” Al says as he recalls a trip to a popular Neapolitan pizza place he refuses to name, where they put pre-crushed San Marzano tomatoes into the sauce without squeezing them first, and thus not eliminating the moisture.

“He takes a big scoop of his sauce, he puts it on the pie with all the water,” Santillo says, comparing Neapolitan pizza to soup.

12:13 p.m.

To observe Al make a pizza is to watch Michelangelo sculpt or Jimi Hendrix play guitar — it’s pizza poetry in mouth-watering motion. An 18-inch square Sicilian crust is topped with aged shredded low moisture mozzarella, fresh mozzarella, San Marzano tomatoes — Al says they’re from Puglia, Italy specifically — before being sprinkled with dried oregano and drizzled with olive oil on the crust.

Ten minutes later, Al pulls the pie out of the oven to check on it and pops the crust’s bubbles the with a knife. Why?

“Because I was taught to,” he says.

Like a conductor, Al navigates the different temperature zones, ensuring each pizza reaches the proper heat with the precision that comes only from working with this particular oven for decades. Every type of pie cooks differently — Sicilian needs to be at a lower temperature, he says — in addition to the breads and strombolis he’s cooking.

“It’s a lot harder than it looks,” Al says. “You could be here for years before you get good at this.”

12:25 p.m.

A 2020 pie hot out of the oven at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza in Elizabeth.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

The 2020 pie is beautiful. It’s still sizzling as Al drizzles more olive oil atop the crust. The cheese is brown and bubbling. The tomatoes rupture from the heat. The loud crack of crispness hits my ears as Al works the pizza cutter. This is no doughy Sicilian pie of other pizzerias. This is pizza for pizza people.

12:45 p.m.

Al insists we watch the Barstool Sports video that further fueled his legend. Dave Portnoy, the president of the popular sports website, came to Santillo’s in January for one of his many pizza reviews (he trashed Star Tavern in Orange last year). Portnoy liked the pizza and loved Al, who watches the video like someone watching home movies — proudly, reliving specific parts, making sure we’re paying attention. The immense popularity of the video (it has nearly 350,000 views on YouTube alone) had even more people than usual stopping by the shop. The phone was ringing off the hook for weeks, Al says. More than six months later, it seems like one out of every four customers tells him they came because they saw the Barstool video.

1:17 p.m.

A customer walks in, unaware of Al’s cash-only policy (you can use a credit card if you order online). This is a common occurrence, and Al automatically directs the customer to nearby ATMs. Throughout the day that no one dares to scoff at the prices, which are higher than your typical take-out pizzeria. A large plain pie is $18, a Sicilian $24. The speciality pies range from $15 all the way to $28 for the 2020 pie. No one thinks twice about dropping 50 bucks on two pies? They must know it’s worth the price.

1:41 p.m.

A 1960 pizza (less cheese, more sauce) ready for the oven at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

A new secret is revealed. A mushroom sunk into the crust means the pizza is to be cooked well-done. A line of sauce across the pie means to cook it lightly. The pizza has its own language. The Santillo’s menu, unlike most pizza placards, allows you to specify how much your pie is cooked. A six is a soft crust, a 10 is a brown/black crust. The darker the better, Al says.

Around this time, a regular customer comes in who seems to know Al fairly well — most of them do. The customer says he usually never allows anyone to eat in his car, but Al’s pizza is so good he makes an exception.

2:12 p.m.

Al Santillo takes orders over the phone at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

The first hiccup of the day: An online order came through, and was missed. Al remains calm, even as the afternoon rush has whipped the kitchen into a frenzy. He tells the customer it’ll be about 25 minutes. They oblige. Crisis averted. With Al and just one helper on hand for the lunch rush, it’s amazing this doesn’t happen more.

4:11 p.m.

The lunch rush has died down but Al warns that each day at Santillo’s is like playing a nine-inning baseball game — and it’s only the seventh inning. “You gotta stay on your toes!” he shouts, spinning around in circles with his hands out. Just Al being Al, remaining perpetual motion for one hour after another.

A bit later, a lull in orders lends Al a spare moment to post a picture of a bunch of uncooked pizzas on the store’s very active Instagram account. For a 63-year-old pizza maker, Al sure knows how to work his following online.

6:37 p.m.

Al Santillo works the oven at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

The dinner rush has arrived. There’s a line out the door. A $280 online order is being prepared.

Al maintains the same tenor he did when the shop was empty, and his ability to juggle the tasks of making the pizzas, cooking the pizzas, taking orders and serving customers is masterful. Customers are endlessly pulled into whatever conversation he’s having with his coworkers. If Al wants to talk Elizabeth gossip, you talk Elizabeth gossip. If Al wants to become your friend, he will become your friend, whether you like it or not.

8:20 p.m.

My custom 1969 pie at Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza.Jeremy Schneider | NJ Advance Media for NJ.com

With the shop closing in about an hour and a half, Al tells me I can make my own pizza. I quell my squeals of joy as he hands me a special 1969 pan pie, which isn’t even on the menu. I try to play it cool, topping my pie with pepperoni, jalapeños, onions, San Marzano tomatoes and sesame seeds on the crust. I do my best to not embarrass myself as I construct it. “You’ve made a pizza before!” Al proclaims (the last pizza I made was Lunchables).

8:35 p.m.

Al finally rests, taking a seat for the first time in nearly 12 hours. Thank the beef gelatin.

9:48 p.m.

My pizza is in the oven. A worker who just recently graduated high school tells me he grew up on Al’s pizza, and that it’s even better cold. He says countless trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night have ended with him eating a slice in front of an open refrigerator.

10:13 p.m.

The shop is officially closed for the night, but there’s still plenty of work to be done. Al asks me to scrape old dough off the sides of the stainless steel mixing bowl — a job he says he’s been doing for 50 years, the first task he was assigned as a baker. As he prepares the dough for the next day, the conversation again becomes existential and sentimental.

“Sometimes it occurs to me, how many more batches of dough am I’m going to make?” Al wonders aloud.

Al Santillo, the patriarch of Santillo's Brick Oven Pizza in Elizabeth, stacks pizza boxes on a busy day in July.Patti Sapone | NJ Advance Media

With Al’s two helpers handling the rest of the clean-up, Al steps out of the shop for the first time in hours to take a seat on the bench in the alleyway. He sips a sparkling water, already talking about tomorrow.

“I gotta be back at 9 in the morning. I gotta take a shower, go inside, go to bed and get back up,” Al says. “No matter who I get here, they can’t run the oven for you. What’s gonna happen? Who’s gonna learn how to run that oven?”

The shop will be closed Monday through Wednesday, but Al will be working those days to keep the shop open. Cooking more sauce. Shredding more cheese. Cleaning and repairing equipment. Reorganizing, making sure the store is ready for its next shift

“This (place) takes every little bit of your time. Any little thing could go wrong.”

As of early September the shop was closed for renovations, for as long as a month — it takes 10 days alone for the oven to cool enough for repairs to be done. And Al is the only person he trusts to make those fixes.

The labor never stops for the hardest-working man in the pizza business. It’s a grind, but it’s his grind.

“I’m still awake, stamina,” Al says. “For my age, I’m the s***.”

Before I leave for the day, we step back into the shop and I throw out one last question I probably already know the answer to.

Does Al Santillo really expect to be making pizza for the rest of his life, considering all that goes into it?

“What else do you want to see me doing?”

Jeremy Schneider may be reached at jschneider@njadvancemedia.com. Follow him on Twitter @J_Schneider. Find NJ.com on Facebook.