You just need to try it. There used to be a great pizza place at the end of the D subway line on Jerome avenue in the Bronx. It might still be there.
You'd go in, order a slice or two, toppings if you want but it was delish without toppings, take up the wait time by playing one of the video games by the plate glass window, an iteration of "Grand Theft Auto" possibly while the traffic noise from busy Jerome Ave and subway train screeching waft in the open doorway of the joint.
The counter man calls out your order. You pay and take your paper bag stuffed with the slice/slices on a sliver of wax paper on top of a white paper plate — you know the kind, with the crinkled edges — and you either take it out and hike to your car where you parked it in the morning before taking the train into Manhattan, or you decide to just sit in the joint and eat it.
Whatever you choose, once you slide a slice out of the paper bag, grease-stained by now (if the bag is not grease-stained you've been duped with lesser quality goods), you take the slice, fold it the long way to make it manageable, and shove the pointed end into you mouth.
Watch it, careful, it's most likely still hot, but your experience comes into play. You know how to handle it in your mouth so you don't get burned, and you just enjoy.
I mean the generous amount of melted Mozzarella is great, the tangy sauce is smeared just right, the crust is crisp and not too thin, not too fat and doughy, cooked so the bottom is browned but not burnt, it folds just right and doesn't flop over once you double it to bitable width — u-m-m-m-u-h-h-h-h, talk about your slice of heaven.
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