Detroit-Style Pizza & The Elusive Golden Bottom

Last updated on May 8, 2025

The first time I tried to make Detroit-style pizza, I thought I nailed it. The cheese bubbled like lava, the corners crisped up into a crown of Frico, and the whole thing smelled like a dream that belonged in a Motor City pizzeria. But when I slid the thing out of the pan and peeked underneath? Pasty. Soft. Like the underbelly of a sleeping seal.

I wanted to scream into the crustless void. But instead, I kept baking.

And here’s what I’ve pieced together since—mostly from trial, error, and late-night scrolling through nerdy pizza forums that probably know more than half the cookbooks out there.

There’s No Cheat Code—Just Reps

No single trick gets you that golden crunch underneath. It’s not a YouTube hack or a temperature setting someone swears by. You have to get to know your own oven, your own pan, your pizza stone, your setup.

One guy on a pizza Discord told me he baked the exact same dough four different ways in the same oven and got four different results. He wasn’t lying. Everything matters: your oven’s hotspots, your rack position, your pan’s thickness. Welcome to chaos.

Oil Like You Mean It (But Not Too Much)

If there’s one thing close to a golden rule, it’s this: your pizza bottom needs oil to crisp. We’re not talking a light brush here—Detroit-style pies fry in their pans.

I pour in avocado oil or even butter until the bottom is thinly coated with a visible shimmer—maybe even a few tiny pools. That’s the magic. But drown it, and you’ll get soggy sadness or worse: burnt oil that tastes like a regret sandwich.

Get the Right Pan (Steel > Mystery Metal)

Cheap aluminum pans? Nah. If you’re serious, get a black steel pan—LloydPans are the crowd favorite for a reason. They heat evenly, release like a dream, and handle abuse. My Lloyds pans have survived 100+ bakes and they still kick out pies like it’s opening night at Buddy’s.

Preheat Like You’re Summoning a Volcano

Whatever you’re baking on—a stone, a steel—heat it for at least an hour. No shortcuts. A 30-minute preheat is like putting on one shoe and going for a run.

I preheat my baking steel or stone for 60–70 minutes. That way, when the pan lands on it, the bottom crust gets an instant blast of hellfire (in the good way). The difference? Night and day. Beige vs. golden brown glory.

Oven Rack Position Is Like Roasting Marshmallows

Bottom rack is where the magic happens—but don’t shove your pan right up against the heating coil unless you want to explain to your smoke detector why dinner’s canceled.

Think: close enough to brown, far enough to avoid incineration. I use the lowest rack, but test with your oven. Some run hot, others limp along like a tired dog. If it smells like burning, it probably is.

The Foil Trick: Rescue Mission Edition

So the top looks like a pizza ad, but the bottom’s still ghostly pale? Here’s the play: gently lift the pie out of the pan and check underneath. If it’s underdone, put some foil over the top of, being careful not to burn yourself—lightly, like a hat. Then bake a few more minutes and check

This move gives the bottom a second chance at life while keeping the top from burning into a crusty tombstone.

Real Help = Real People

I’d be nowhere without random strangers on the internet. Instagram DMs, old pizza subreddits, even comment sections on crusty old blog posts—they’re all gold mines.

One guy walked me through his bake setup on a 12-year-old oven with a broken light. Another sent pictures of his Frico edge like it was a newborn baby. People want to help. Just ask. And if you wanna ask me? I’m here. I’ve burned enough pies to at least tell you what not to do.

So—Is It Worth the Trouble?

That first time I nailed it? Crust golden as a wheat field in July. Bite was crispy, chewy, a little greasy in the best way. I danced in my kitchen like I’d won a tiny edible trophy.

But hey, until you get there? Pale-bottomed pies are part of the journey. Ugly but tasty. You’ll learn, you’ll tweak, you’ll burn a few—and then one day it’ll click.

And maybe you’ll wonder, like I did: Why the hell didn’t I write it down?