American Pie_ My Search For The Perfect Pizza Part 1

American pie : my search for the perfect pizza.

by Peter Reinhart.

Introduction

For a long time, I thought the best pizza in the country was from Mama's in Bala Cynwyd, just outside of Philadelphia. And then something happened.I grew up on Mama's, even worked there briefly as a delivery boy, and found warm comfort in its stringy cheese and crisp, yet floppy crust whenever I'd been rejected for a date, lost a basketball game, or got together with high-school friends for a Sat.u.r.day-night poker game. My family was equally hooked, and we often picked up a Mama's pizza for dinner when my mom wanted a break from cooking, especially if going out for Chinese food, our other favorite pastime, seemed like too much trouble. We knew the owners of Pagano's Pizzeria in West Philadelphia and often went there when we wanted an actual restaurant experience to go along with our pizza, pasta, and broasted chicken (they were pioneers in this now rarely seen pressurized frying system). But as good as Pagano's pizza was, it never measured up to Mama's for deeply felt satisfaction, a culinary balm of Gilead. More than forty years after eating my first Mama's pizza, almost always made by Paul Castelucci (though I never knew his last name when I worked as a delivery boy), the business is still in the family, and the pizzas are now supervised, but not made, by Paul Jr., Paul's son. Mama's is still extremely popular, with long waiting times not only for pizza, but also for fabulous stromboli, hoagies, and cheese steaks.My brother Fred, who now lives forty-five minutes from Mama's instead of the five minutes of our childhood, continues to make the pilgrimage whenever he needs a fix. He brought us a Mama's pizza when my wife, Susan, and I were in Philadelphia for a big food event. Susan had sprained her ankle at the airport just after we landed, forcing us to cancel our dinner plans so she could keep her foot on ice. When I called Fred to explain our plight, he said, "No problem, I'll pick up a pizza and some cheese steaks at Mama's and we'll eat in." I loved the idea. It had been years since my last Mama's pizza.The pizza arrived ninety minutes later, accompanied by Fred and his wife, Patty. I rushed through the greetings-hug, hug, "great to see you"-while Patty comforted Susan. I was captivated by the aroma of the pizzas and cheese steaks, and my mind floated away to distant times. It was like a long-lost friend, triggering painful and joyful memories that were flas.h.i.+ng like a deck of cards rifled in front of my eyes. I'd deal with those later. For now, as far as I was concerned, it was about opening the pizza box, unwrapping the butcher paper from the cheese steaks, and getting everyone to stop talking and start eating. We divvied up the cheese steaks, which tasted even better than I remembered them to be, and then, at last, pa.s.sed around slices of the pizza. I took a bite and stopped, the pleasant image-streaming of food memories suddenly interrupted by a mental disconnect. I shook it off and took another bite expecting an automatic memory flash to kick in so I could resume my forty-year flavor retrospective. Instead, I got a blast of "Whoa!"There was definitely something amiss. The words just came out without forethought. "Fred, they've changed the crust.""No they haven't.""Yes they have.""No, they haven't. Maybe it's you.""I don't think so. The crust is thicker and there are no air bubbles in the lip. Definitely not the Mama's I grew up with.""I think it's you.""No, it isn't."Fred took another bite. "Well, it does seem a little thicker than usual. I heard they were breaking in a new pizza guy. But, I gotta tell you, it's still pretty close to usual.""Maybe it is me," I thought. It wasn't just that the crust was a little different. The cheese and sauce certainly still resonated with old memories, and even if it wasn't the best Mama's, it was close enough that it should have elicited, within my usually tolerant margin-for-error forgiveness code, at least a sigh of pleasure. But something had changed within me. My expectations, an internal bar of standards that is both conscious and subconscious, had been violated. A slow wave of realization set in, one that I couldn't suppress even though I tried."Maybe," I said to myself, "it was never as good as I thought it was, just the best I'd been exposed to during my sheltered youth." I knew it was something I couldn't say out loud because Fred and Patty still lived here, while I was going back to Providence and might not have another Mama's pizza for years. Yet I couldn't shake the thought.Since 1990, when I left the communal setting of a religious order in which everyone lived a vow of poverty and thus had limited restaurant experience, I have had the privilege of teaching and writing about food, especially bread. I've traveled around the country and beyond, belatedly pursuing knowledge about my taste pa.s.sions. These pa.s.sions are simple, not of the great gourmand type. I have learned that one of my inherent gifts is the ability to recognize flavors and textures of universal appeal and show people how to reproduce them. As a result of this gift, I have carved out a career as an educator, writer, and product developer. Which brings me back to pizza.I have had a steady stream of students who have their own sets of childhood food a.s.sociations that have driven them to the gates of learning. Food memories, as James Beard and M.F. K. Fisher have shown us, are powerful and compelling forces. Wherever I teach, if I want to get a lively conversation going, I need only ask, "Where do I find the best pizza around here?" Nearly everyone has a pizza story and a strong opinion. Pizza, it seems, lives in everyone's hall of fame.In 1976, I worked in Raleigh, North Carolina, as a houseparent in a home for what we euphemistically called undisciplined teenagers; in other words, juvenile delinquents. There was a pizzeria on Hillsborough Street called Brothers Pizza, and although I barely remember the details of the place, I do remember the experience of it. I took the kids there whenever we needed to decompress from the latest dramatic event in our house, and there were always, always dramas. That pizza, and only that pizza among all the pizza shops in town, was a panacea, our emotional salve. It had a crispy, crackly crust, like hot b.u.t.tered toast, comforting and satisfying. It was perfect. The cheese was stringy and slightly salty. Was it the best pizza I'd ever had? No, but it was "perfect" pizza, a peerless match of textures and flavors that fed more than our stomachs and palates. But if I had it now, all these years later, I imagine it would be like having a Mama's now. It would be good, perhaps the same as it always was, but it wouldn't be the pizza of 1976, when teenage boys and girls from shattered families, with broken hearts and raging hormones, felt safe enough to confess their fears to me and to one another as they ate their pizza. That pizza, out of that context, could never be that perfect again.So here I was, years after Raleigh, in Philadelphia, realizing that I was caught in a nature versus nurture situation. Was it me or was it the pizza that had changed, or was it a little bit of both? I'm pretty sure that when I asked myself that question, I set this whole pizza quest in motion.Pizzeria BiancoA few years before what I now refer to as my "Mama's awakening," a student of mine at the California Culinary Academy in San Francisco told me about a guy named Chris Bianco, who owned Pizzeria Bianco, in Phoenix, Arizona. She had worked at his restaurant prior to coming to school and raved about his pizza. By a happy coincidence, I was headed to Phoenix for the annual conference of the International a.s.sociation of Culinary Professionals, which is always held in a different city. Most of us went to Phoenix expecting to experience a blitz of great Southwest cuisine, and we weren't disappointed. But the restaurant that had the biggest buzz of all was Pizzeria Bianco, located just a short walk from the convention center in downtown Phoenix.I was scheduled to make a presentation on bread-baking techniques at one of the conference workshops, so prior to leaving San Francisco, I asked my Phoenix student to recommend a bakery that I could partner with for making my workshop breads. She said there weren't any good bread bakeries, but that Chris Bianco made his own bread for his pizzeria, and it was easily the best in town. I called him and we arranged to bake bread together.When I got to town, I walked over to Pizzeria Bianco with Steve Garner, a friend of mine who hosts a radio food show in Santa Rosa, California, and John Ash, one of the great chefs of America who also cohosts the show with Steve. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and the restaurant wasn't scheduled to open for another two hours. My idea was that we'd talk and plan out our bread baking, but Chris insisted on making us a couple of pizzas first."Okay," I said without resistance, hoping, but doubtful, that they would live up to their reputation. A few minutes later, two perfect, I mean perfect perfect, pizzas landed on our table, a cla.s.sic Margherita Margherita and a white pizza with arugula and onions, and all thought of bread baking vanished for the moment. Steve and John immediately kicked into their radio-interview mode and began grilling Chris about his pizzas. We learned that as a young man with cooking talent he had gone to Naples from the Bronx, his hometown, to learn how to make true Neapolitan pizza. When his family moved to Phoenix, he decided to make his culinary statement by trying to create the best pizza in the world. He made his own mozzarella cheese and grew his own basil and lettuce behind the restaurant. He and his brother, Marco, made their own rustic Italian bread (similar to and a white pizza with arugula and onions, and all thought of bread baking vanished for the moment. Steve and John immediately kicked into their radio-interview mode and began grilling Chris about his pizzas. We learned that as a young man with cooking talent he had gone to Naples from the Bronx, his hometown, to learn how to make true Neapolitan pizza. When his family moved to Phoenix, he decided to make his culinary statement by trying to create the best pizza in the world. He made his own mozzarella cheese and grew his own basil and lettuce behind the restaurant. He and his brother, Marco, made their own rustic Italian bread (similar to ciabatta ciabatta) from the pizza dough, and their mother came in to make the three desserts on the menu. Chris served five types of pizza (no subst.i.tutes, please), house salad, an appetizer course, beverages, and dessert. There was no pasta course on the menu, nor any other entree. It was just a pizzeria, but with haute cuisine att.i.tude. I asked him why no pasta."I think I actually could make the best pasta in town, and if we served it people would love it," he explained. "But then I'd have my attention divided and the pizzas might suffer. So I decided my true goal is to make the best pizza in the world. If I ever want to do pasta, I'll open a different restaurant and do it there."Did he have plans to do just that? He smiled sheepishly and said, "No, not really. You've got to understand, I love making pizza."We talked for quite awhile and I realized it was almost five o'clock. A crowd had been gathering outside the front door for over an hour-hot, anxious people hoping to be in the first wave to grab one of the forty-two seats and not have to wait for the second seating. (I soon learned that this is a daily ritual at Bianco.)Chris antic.i.p.ated my question and said, "I don't do takeout. Can't keep up. Besides, I want them to eat the pizza the way it's meant to be eaten, right out of the oven. It's just not the same out of the box. But even so, a wood-fired oven can only handle so many pies and that's that." He excused himself to get ready for dinner.Now we were getting dirty looks from some of the people peering through the window, wondering why we were on the inside, eating pizza, while they had to wait until the doors opened at five. More to the point, probably, they were worried our three precious seats might not be available when the doors opened. So, we made our exit, and a collective sigh of relief rose from the line.The next morning I returned to make my bread dough and watched Chris make his pizza dough. "I don't use a mixer, just a big bowl and my hands," he said. Sure enough, he combined about fifty pounds of flour (specially flown in from the Giusto's mill in San Francisco) with salt, yeast, and water. Unlike most American pizza makers, he used no oil, true to the Neapolitan rule."It's really all about feel," he explained. "I have to make it by hand because it's the only way to really know when it's right. I can just feel what adjustments are needed and when it's ready."Twenty minutes later we had finished mixing our respective doughs. Mine, using a new technique I had just learned in France, had to be chilled, but Chris's dough stayed out, covered in the bowl, to ferment slowly. Hours later he divided it into smaller pieces for either pizza or bread, shaped his loaves, and again allowed the dough to ferment, chilling the evening pizza dough in the refrigerator and leaving the bread pieces out for Marco to bake off later. The rest of the time he and his crew did all the prep, making the sauces, picking lettuce and basil from the garden, and readying themselves for the rush of people gathered at the still-locked door.Watching Chris work helped me to realize how much I still had to learn about that simple yet complex substance called dough and, more importantly, about how dough is transformed, in the hands of a skilled pizzaiolo pizzaiolo (pizza maker) into pizza. A few years pa.s.sed and I got deeper and deeper into the intricacies of bread making, trying to figure out how, as I described it, to evoke the full potential of flavor from the grain. In developing pizza dough for several companies, I gradually came to understand what causes some dough to be better than others. I ate a lot of pizza along the way and tasted many toppings and, more important, heard many pizza philosophies. Whenever the subject of great pizza came up, I mentioned Bianco. At first I was met with laughter and disbelief. The idea of great pizza in Phoenix just didn't compute. But then I ran into people who knew about Pizzeria Bianco, either from experience or from reading or hearing about it. (pizza maker) into pizza. A few years pa.s.sed and I got deeper and deeper into the intricacies of bread making, trying to figure out how, as I described it, to evoke the full potential of flavor from the grain. In developing pizza dough for several companies, I gradually came to understand what causes some dough to be better than others. I ate a lot of pizza along the way and tasted many toppings and, more important, heard many pizza philosophies. Whenever the subject of great pizza came up, I mentioned Bianco. At first I was met with laughter and disbelief. The idea of great pizza in Phoenix just didn't compute. But then I ran into people who knew about Pizzeria Bianco, either from experience or from reading or hearing about it.It had been a while since I'd tasted the pizza at Pizzeria Bianco, so I began to doubt my memory. Shortly after the "Mama's awakening," I ran into one of my favorite food writers, Jeffrey Steingarten, and he asked me who I thought made the best pizza. "I used to think it was Mama's in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania," I told him, "but now I think it might be Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix."He hadn't been there but had heard of it. "How can you call it the best if you haven't tried Frank Pepe's or Sally's in New Haven, or John's or Grimaldi's in New York City?" he asked.Of course he was right. Pizzeria Bianco might have been the best I'd ever had, but there were so many other legendary places still to try. So I did go to Pepe's, Sally's, Grimaldi's, John's, and many other places. I went to Genoa and then to Naples, into the belly of the beast, to the source, and then returned to America to immerse myself in pizza of all types: cla.s.sic, modern, avant-garde, you name it. I was searching for the perfect slice. That meant I had to discover what perfection, at least pizza perfection, really is. Along the way I went back to Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix to find out if my memory held true, or if it was to be another Mama's moment, surpa.s.sed by even better pizza found elsewhere.In the pages that follow, I recount the journey that took place between my two visits to Phoenix, plus some trips that followed it. (This is a journey with no clear endpoint; it doesn't begin or end with Pizzeria Bianco or Mama's, but is merely signposted by them.) I had become a hunter of sorts, a pizza hunter, and I enlisted others to join me on the hunts. With Mama's no longer the benchmark, and with the memory of Pizzeria Bianco serving as a temporary beacon and standard, I sought out great pizza everywhere I traveled, and I traveled to seek out great pizza.Some of the numerous pizza excursions I ch.o.r.eographed were thwarted by circ.u.mstances: trip cancellations, a restaurant Closed sign, logistical mix-ups. But almost every time something went wrong, something else occurred to make it all right. In fact, Plan B was often better than Plan A could ever have been. As result I came up with the Reinhart Pizza Hunter's Credo, a sound axiom for anyone who decides to adopt it: It's all about the adventure, not the pizza. The pizza is just grace.Sometimes my fellow pizza hunters made the hunt itself a more memorable adventure than the pizza did. I had so many interesting conversations around a pizza, on the way to get a pizza, or in antic.i.p.ation of a pizza, that the pizza itself became the excuse for the hunt. But every now and then, the quality of the pizza transcended the hunt, stopped all conversation and refocused everything on itself, the object and subject, and the thrill of the hunt fulfilled itself in the quarry. When that happened it was magical, and all that mattered again was pizza.So, I followed the trail wherever it led. And where it inevitably led, to no one's surprise, was Italy.

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Those who have traveled to Naples, or to Genoa and its surrounding Ligurian coast, know that American pizza and focaccia (the northern Italian version of pizza) are not always the same as what we call Neapolitan, or Napoletana Napoletana, pizza or Ligurian focaccia. There are a number of reasons for this difference, and it is not necessarily a bad thing that ours are different from theirs. Pizza is, and has always been, a work in progress.My Greek friends insist that pizza isn't even originally Italian, but Greek, brought to Naples by Peloponnesians escaping the Ottomon Turks or, much earlier, by Trojans fleeing the builders of that famous horse. Indeed, most Greeks are happy to take credit for contributions from both eras and like to connect nearly everything in Italy to their famous ancestors, Odysseus and Aeneas. In relation to pizza, their reasoning may be accurate. Naples, originally called Neapolis, was founded in the sixth century B.C. B.C. by Greek colonists from the even earlier nearby settlement of c.u.mae. We also know that the ancient Greeks made a flatbread with toppings called by Greek colonists from the even earlier nearby settlement of c.u.mae. We also know that the ancient Greeks made a flatbread with toppings called placenta placenta.But here's the pith of it: Pizza evolved from one of the most basic food concepts-bread and topping, specifically dough cooked over or in a fire, finished off with sauce, oil, cheese, whatever was at hand. Did the Greeks invent it? Why not the Egyptians? Or the Indians? Forget about who invented pizza. The real question is where was it perfected, where was it elevated from a simple peasant food to the craft, to the art form we appreciate today? You do not have to be an Italian or even an Italian American to know the answer to that one. When Gennaro Lombardi brought pizza to New York City's Lower East Side in 1905, he brought it from Italy; his influence was the pie of Naples. But the fuel in New York was coal, not the wood of southern Italy, so from the moment pizza hit the sh.o.r.es of America, modification and adaptability were inevitable. Thus began the evolution (some would say the devolution) of pizza as we now know it.I knew I would have to visit the surviving great early pizzerias of America, not only for the pleasure of their pies, but also to back my response to the inescapable challenge, "How can you say Pizzeria Bianco is the best if you haven't been to -?" But even more important, I knew I would have to (would want to, would love to) visit the original role models, the pizzerias of Naples and the focaccerie focaccerie of Liguria, to understand what they had fostered on this side of the Atlantic. In other words, I would have to go to Italy. of Liguria, to understand what they had fostered on this side of the Atlantic. In other words, I would have to go to Italy.LIGURIAI began my search for the roots of pizza in the port city of Genoa, the commercial heart of the northwest region of Liguria. Susan and I settled into a hotel room just around the corner from the statue of Christopher Columbus near the central train station, and then set out to explore this hardworking harbor town known as the epicenter of focaccia alla genovese focaccia alla genovese. The people of Genoa are as proud of their focaccia as the Neapolitans are of their pizza. Some variation of it is served at most meals. Focaccerie Focaccerie, similar to the pizza-by-the-slice shops of New York City, are found every few blocks in this colorful, maritime town, which meant that freshly baked focaccia was never more than a few minutes away, no matter where we found ourselves.In my brief sampling, I came to the following conclusion: focaccia is not automatically extraordinary just because it is made in Genoa. Like pizzas everywhere, focaccia can be great, good, or forgettable. Whether topped with cheese, onions, potatoes, cured meats, or pesto or another sauce, the bread itself is usually good but seldom outstanding, mind-numbing, conversation stopping, or otherwise memorable.One thing I learned during two previous trips to Italy is that while Italians love bread, you won't find great bread everywhere in the country. The ratio of world-cla.s.s bread to average bread is about the same as in the United States. Even so, Italians are loyal to their local bread products, regardless of outside opinion. For instance, while visiting Bologna, I encountered the manino manino, a roll shaped to look like a hand. The locals raved to me about how special this bread was, and I found I had to hide my disappointment when I finally tried some. What was special was that the Bolognans had grown up with this unusually shaped bread. What was a bit perplexing was how these food-savvy people could be so deluded about their dry, overly starchy bread that had no discernible special property other than its shape. This is not an unusual circ.u.mstance. People are notoriously-and naturally-chauvinistic to the point of delusion about many of the things they have known since childhood. I myself am that way-or once was-about Mama's pizza.The focaccia of Genoa was certainly better than the manino manino of Bologna. But would I make a return trip for it? No. The focaccia in San Francisco's North Beach, from the aptly named Liguria Bakery, is as good. The focaccia-like pizza at Sullivan Street Bakery in Manhattan is substantially better. The focaccia my culinary students make is actually as good or better than anything I had in Genoa. of Bologna. But would I make a return trip for it? No. The focaccia in San Francisco's North Beach, from the aptly named Liguria Bakery, is as good. The focaccia-like pizza at Sullivan Street Bakery in Manhattan is substantially better. The focaccia my culinary students make is actually as good or better than anything I had in Genoa."Well, do you think we should still go to Recco?" Susan asked."We've got nothing to lose," I replied, trying to remain hopeful that something new and different awaited us there.We bought train tickets for the forty-five-minute ride to Recco, a small town just south of Genoa. Carol Field, author of The Italian Baker The Italian Baker among other cla.s.sics, and Johanne Killeen and George Germon, owners of the among other cla.s.sics, and Johanne Killeen and George Germon, owners of the Al Forno Restaurant in Providence Al Forno Restaurant in Providence had all said we must go to try the local had all said we must go to try the local focaccia col formaggio di Recco. focaccia col formaggio di Recco. Once on the train, Susan asked me what I thought about the focaccia in Genoa. Our conversation went something like this: Once on the train, Susan asked me what I thought about the focaccia in Genoa. Our conversation went something like this:"Well, focaccia is just bread with something on it or in it. So if it's going to be memorable, the bread has to be really, really good. The breakfast focaccia at the hotel, plain with just a little salt and aniseed on top, was good. It was flavorful, the bread was moist and not dry-I liked it. But will I dream about it? Will I crave it when we get home and regret not being able to find anything like it? I doubt it. The pesto focaccia from the shop near our hotel was good. The sauce was wonderful, which I would expect here in Genoa since pesto, focaccia, and Christopher Columbus are the three things for which the city is famous.""So what's the big deal then about focaccia?" Susan asked."The potential for greatness is always there, but I think focaccia is like most things that have been around for a while: bakers settle into a routine until someone comes along and pushes the envelope. As long as people buy it at this level, most bakers have no incentive to take it to another level. I'm sure there are focaccerie focaccerie that do it better than what we've sampled, and bakers who know there are ways to make the bread better. That said, I do appreciate one thing about all Genoa focaccia: the thickness. In the States, focaccia is usually too thick-more than an inch and sometimes even two inches tall-so that it becomes too much about the bread and not enough about the topping. Here, it's just right, about a half inch thick, and even though it looks like it's going to be dry, it stays moist and creamy. That's the most valuable thing I saw in Genoa." that do it better than what we've sampled, and bakers who know there are ways to make the bread better. That said, I do appreciate one thing about all Genoa focaccia: the thickness. In the States, focaccia is usually too thick-more than an inch and sometimes even two inches tall-so that it becomes too much about the bread and not enough about the topping. Here, it's just right, about a half inch thick, and even though it looks like it's going to be dry, it stays moist and creamy. That's the most valuable thing I saw in Genoa."As we pulled into our stop, Susan sighed, "Well I hope this Recco focaccia is better than what we've had so far." We would soon discover that she had just uttered the understatement of the trip.The train station stood at the top of a hill, and the street that led away from it spiraled down to sea level and the Via Roma, the main street of Recco. According to Ed Behr, who reported on Recco in his wonderful journal, The Art of Eating The Art of Eating, the town had been heavily bombed during World War II and then rebuilt. That explains its rather modern feel, which is reminiscent of a small East Coast beach community in America. As we wound our way down to the town, its charm began to grow on us.We were in search of the most famous restaurant in Recco, Manuelina, the purported early-twentieth-century birthplace of the legendary focaccia col formaggio di Recco. focaccia col formaggio di Recco. Ed Behr's research seemed to suggest that it was probably Manuelina Capurra's marketing skills that earned her the credit for inventing something that was already being served in many towns along the coast (and in similar permutations in Greece under the generic category "pita"). The civic fathers of Recco realized well before their neighbors the value in "owning" a celebrated product. The town had once been known for its watch factory, but that was long gone. So it latched onto dough and cheese, established an annual Ed Behr's research seemed to suggest that it was probably Manuelina Capurra's marketing skills that earned her the credit for inventing something that was already being served in many towns along the coast (and in similar permutations in Greece under the generic category "pita"). The civic fathers of Recco realized well before their neighbors the value in "owning" a celebrated product. The town had once been known for its watch factory, but that was long gone. So it latched onto dough and cheese, established an annual focaccia col formaggio focaccia col formaggio festival, and pulled off a coup that would make any chamber of commerce proud. Recco claimed festival, and pulled off a coup that would make any chamber of commerce proud. Recco claimed focaccia col formaggio focaccia col formaggio as its own, and the town had the franchise by fiat. as its own, and the town had the franchise by fiat.Almost every restaurant we pa.s.sed proudly listed this item in its window display, but only a select few have become renowned for it. We had been given a street address for Manuelina on Via Roma, so we kept walking until we came to it, about a mile down the road. It was closed."This can't be happening," I moaned.Susan responded more philosophically, proposing "Maybe this is one of those times when, you know, if a door closes, a window opens."I groaned as I knocked on the door. Amazingly, it was unlocked and opened slowly. We went in, hoping that our American audaciousness would result in us finding someone who would tell us that even though the restaurant was closed on Wednesdays, and this was Wednesday, the staff would cook for us. The restaurant was beautiful and I wanted to eat there. We heard someone walking toward us. It was the cleaning woman, and even though she did not speak English, a series of desperate hand gestures prompted her to lead us across the alley into a pleasant hotel and to a woman who seemed to be in charge. I explained that we had come all the way from the United States to experience the focaccia col formaggio di Recco focaccia col formaggio di Recco at Manuelina and how distressed we were to find the restaurant closed. at Manuelina and how distressed we were to find the restaurant closed."Ah yes," she said in good English, "It is our restaurant, but it is closed every Wednesday. I am so sorry."I put on my saddest face and asked, "Are any of the cooks around? Is there any chance?""Ah no," she said. "But I have an idea. About sixty meters down the road is another restaurant, Da Vittorio. They also make the focaccia and theirs is," and at this point she whispered, "as good as ours.""Really?""Well, almost as good. But it is very good and they are open and we are not."She pointed us back toward the train station and we walked until we came to Da Vittorio. It looked like a Swiss chalet, less fancy than Manuelina, but charming in its own way. Like Manuelina, it seemed to be a combination hotel and restaurant. The doors were open and we saw movement inside, so we went in. Two men were at work in the room, setting things up for the lunch hour. They both looked up and smiled as we entered. They were identical twins. We approached one of them and explained our plight. He nodded, gestured with the international wait-a-second motion, and then returned with the other twin."I am Giovanni, and this is my twin brother, Vittorio. We are the Bis...o...b..others. I speak English but he does not."So I again explained our mission, how we discovered that Manuelina was closed after traveling all the way from the United States to eat there, but that we had heard that their restaurant was equally good. He especially liked the last point and translated it for his brother, who smiled and nodded.[image]A focaccia col formaggio di Recco focaccia col formaggio di Recco, just out of the oven, made by focacciaiolo focacciaiolo Fabio, and Da Vittorio co-owner Giovanni Bisso. Fabio, and Da Vittorio co-owner Giovanni Bisso. (photo credit 1.1) (photo credit 1.1)"Yes, there are three such famous places in Recco, and we are one of them. We will take good care of you."Those were the magic words I had been waiting all day to hear.Giovanni, whose nickname is Gian, guided us into the kitchen where we were surrounded by bubbling pots of fish stock and an active little community of three cooks calmly but busily making sauces, fresh pasta, and, in its own little corner of the kitchen, focaccia col formaggio. focaccia col formaggio. We moved to the very back of the room where we met the We moved to the very back of the room where we met the focacciaiolo focacciaiolo, Fabio, who generously demonstrated for us the simple art of Recco's gift to the culinary lexicon.I had never had focaccia col formaggio di Recco focaccia col formaggio di Recco, so I had no idea that it was unlike all the other focaccia I had seen in Genoa. It is made from unyeasted dough-just flour, water, and a bit of salt. Fabio first rolled it out and then stretched it by hand into a larger and larger disk that was so paper-thin that it was almost translucent, much like strudel or phyllo dough. He draped the disk over a large copper pan about twenty-four inches in diameter with a half-inch lip around the edge, and then tucked it in to eliminate any air pockets. Next, he topped it with dollops of creamy stracchino stracchino, a fresh cheese that looked like a rich ricotta but was more like mascarpone or soft cream cheese. He then shaped a second piece of the dough just like the first one, used it to cover the top of the "pie" (for that was what it had now become), and crimped the edges of the two disks together. Finally, he poked four or five holes in the top, pulled them out slightly to create vents, drizzled the entire surface with olive oil, sprinkled on a little salt, and slid the pan into the oven (after a little awkward translation, we decided it was heated to the equivalent of 500 degrees). Fabio told us to come back in about eight minutes.[image]This is what a focaccia col formaggio di Recco focaccia col formaggio di Recco looks like just before the top crust covers all that luscious looks like just before the top crust covers all that luscious stracchino stracchino cheese. cheese. (photo credit 1.2) (photo credit 1.2)Gian then took us up a short flight of stairs to his pasta shop, where we met Renato, who was making trofie trofie (or (or troffie troffie) and pansotti pansotti from a simple dough of flour, water, and salt-no eggs, no oil. To make the from a simple dough of flour, water, and salt-no eggs, no oil. To make the trofie trofie, Renato cut off small snippets of dough and rolled them into little corkscrewed twigs with the edge of his hand. He showed me how to do it and was a little surprised, and pleased, that I was able to pick up the technique fairly quickly. Within a few minutes he had, with the addition of my few pieces, created a large pile of trofie trofie, ready to be boiled. Some of the remaining dough was rolled into small disks, about the size of a silver dollar, and then pressed with a small wooden stamp that imprinted a design. These decorative, delicate pastas were called corzetti stampati. corzetti stampati. Gian explained that the stamps came in many patterns, some personal and some of general interest, ranging from abstract lines and geometric shapes to more representational pastoral scenes and figures. Gian explained that the stamps came in many patterns, some personal and some of general interest, ranging from abstract lines and geometric shapes to more representational pastoral scenes and figures.By this time the focaccia col formaggio focaccia col formaggio was ready to be pulled from the oven. It had turned a deep golden color with caramelized splotches that were dark brown. Gian quickly escorted us to our table in the dining room. A couple at the table across the aisle from us were sipping some white wine. We were brought a bottle of the same local wine, and the pan of focaccia that we had watched Fabio make was placed next to our table. The waiter sliced it into squares, not wedges as with pizza, and lifted a few pieces onto each of our plates. He did the same for the couple across the aisle. It looked like a lot of pie, larger than what we think of as an extra-large pizza, but because the dough was so thin, it was not a lot of food. As soon as we finished our servings, Susan and I realized that we could have easily devoured the entire pie without the help of the other couple. I even felt pangs of resentment toward them. I wanted more. was ready to be pulled from the oven. It had turned a deep golden color with caramelized splotches that were dark brown. Gian quickly escorted us to our table in the dining room. A couple at the table across the aisle from us were sipping some white wine. We were brought a bottle of the same local wine, and the pan of focaccia that we had watched Fabio make was placed next to our table. The waiter sliced it into squares, not wedges as with pizza, and lifted a few pieces onto each of our plates. He did the same for the couple across the aisle. It looked like a lot of pie, larger than what we think of as an extra-large pizza, but because the dough was so thin, it was not a lot of food. As soon as we finished our servings, Susan and I realized that we could have easily devoured the entire pie without the help of the other couple. I even felt pangs of resentment toward them. I wanted more.But we didn't get more. Gian had taken charge of our dining experience, and it was time for the definitive Genoese pasta experience, trofie col pesto. trofie col pesto. Those toothsome little pasta twigs that we had twisted in the kitchen had been boiled for just a few minutes and were now served in a sauce of fresh basil, garlic, pine nuts, olive oil, and Parmesan. We had had pasta with pes...o...b..fore, of course, but there is something to be said for being served this dish by people who are proud of what they do and of what their region has contributed to the culinary vocabulary. Gian and Vittorio both had the appearance of hosts content with fulfilling their appointed purpose in life. They were bringing us pleasure and they were doing it through total immersion in their heritage. The Bis...o...b..others' pesto was excellent, brightly colored and flavored. It was perhaps not the best I had ever eaten, but given the context, it was certainly the most memorable. Those toothsome little pasta twigs that we had twisted in the kitchen had been boiled for just a few minutes and were now served in a sauce of fresh basil, garlic, pine nuts, olive oil, and Parmesan. We had had pasta with pes...o...b..fore, of course, but there is something to be said for being served this dish by people who are proud of what they do and of what their region has contributed to the culinary vocabulary. Gian and Vittorio both had the appearance of hosts content with fulfilling their appointed purpose in life. They were bringing us pleasure and they were doing it through total immersion in their heritage. The Bis...o...b..others' pesto was excellent, brightly colored and flavored. It was perhaps not the best I had ever eaten, but given the context, it was certainly the most memorable.The trofie trofie was followed by the was followed by the pansotti pansotti served in served in salsa di noce salsa di noce, a rich bechamel-like cream sauce with walnuts, garlic, marjoram, pine nuts, and some kind of fresh, creamy cheese which Gian casually referred to as formagita formagita. What remains in my memory about both the trofie trofie and the and the pansotti pansotti is not the sauce, but the texture of the pasta, one of slightly chewy resistance that just gave way under the tooth, complemented by the sauce but not really dependent on it. is not the sauce, but the texture of the pasta, one of slightly chewy resistance that just gave way under the tooth, complemented by the sauce but not really dependent on it.By the time the fish stew was served, we were so sated we were practically hanging onto our chairs. I have no idea what we had for dessert, though I remember that it was very good; my mind was still rapt with thoughts, cravings, for focaccia col formaggio di Recco focaccia col formaggio di Recco. Gian sat with us as we collected ourselves, telling us nostalgic stories of his region. I remember little bits of what he said, like how the term blue jeans blue jeans was named after the blue trousers of Genoese sailors; that the flag of London was based on the flag of Genoa; that the patron saints of the area are Mary the Suffering, Saint John the Baptist, and Saint George (of dragon fame); and that Vitturin, Manuelina, and La Barachetta di Biagio were other restaurants where you can find excellent was named after the blue trousers of Genoese sailors; that the flag of London was based on the flag of Genoa; that the patron saints of the area are Mary the Suffering, Saint John the Baptist, and Saint George (of dragon fame); and that Vitturin, Manuelina, and La Barachetta di Biagio were other restaurants where you can find excellent focaccia col formaggio di Recco focaccia col formaggio di Recco. Some places, he told us, don't bake it in copper pans but directly on the stone hearth. Opinion is divided on the matter of which method is best, and we didn't have another day to stick around to find out, but I wondered, "How could it get any better than this?"As we prepared to leave, Vittorio, who is named after his grandfather, the original owner of Da Vittorio, took us to a large urn and indicated that we should choose something from it. Gian explained, "He wants you to take a wooden pasta stamp as a souvenir of your time here."We pulled one of the stamps from the bowl. It had a simple design on it, but the pattern did not matter. It was a touching moment. We had been treated to true Ligurian hospitality, and even though this scene may have been repeated countless times with other visitors, we felt that for a few hours we had been adopted, maybe even initiated, into a special private society.As we walked back to the train station, I said, "You know, even if nothing else remarkable happens on this trip, it will all have been worth it just for this experience."Then I remembered Susan's optimistic comment about serendipity, and officially adopted the credo that informed the next few months of pizza discovery: it's all about the adventure.FLORENCEThe bookends of our Italian pizza hunting were Genoa and Naples, but there were two important stops between them, Florence and Rome. Faith Willinger lives in Florence. A New Yorker married to an Italian businessman, her heart now belongs to Italy. She has carved out an important niche in the city, taking people on market and vineyard tours and teaching them how to cook in her home kitchen with the things they bring back. Faith is a star among the chefs in Italy; everyone knows her and she, in turn, seems to know everyone. When I told her we were coming to town, she invited us over for lunch, ch.o.r.eographed our visit to Florence, and also helped us plan out our time for Rome and Naples.Faith even recommended our hotel, Palazzo Castiglione, which was only a ten-minute walk from her house and was located in a wonderful old palazzo, with a different hotel occupying each floor. Indeed, everything in Florence seemed like a ten-minute walk from everything else. We spent much of our time doing the typical first-time-in-Florence things, such as being overwhelmed by Michelangelo's David David, visiting various museums, buying jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio, and exploring the many narrow streets and alleys in search of the best gelateria gelateria. Faith arranged for us to have lunch at Cibreo, one of the finest restaurants in Florence, where the flavors were so fresh and perfectly balanced that we just sighed and, as in Recco, let go. All of these things would have been enough to make our stay perfectly satisfying. We were not expecting to find great pizza in Florence. After all, the city is not known for it. But we got lucky on our final evening.Just up the block from our sweet little hotel was a pizzeria we had walked past a number of times. It took the recommendation of an Australian chap, a handyman at our hotel, to give us the nudge we needed to check out the place."If it's pizza you want, you won't do any better than that Antica place just a few doors up the street," he said. That was enough for us.We were greeted at Antica Pizzeria dell'Arte by the first of two Salvatores. This one was the headwaiter and he would turn out to be the only employee we met who was not one of the three sons of the owners, Ciro Urbano and his wife, Palma (who was also the pastry chef). It was a warm, not-too-muggy night, so we decided to eat outside. In a scene that was to repeat itself many times, sometimes in English and sometimes through a fractured, though practiced, Italian phrase, Susan explained to the waiter that I was a writer of cookbooks ("Buongiorno. Mi chiamo Susan Reinhart. Mio marito Peter Reinhart e un autore dei libri della cucina."), that I was doing a book on pizza, and that we'd heard that the pizza here was very good (that part was always in English)."Not just good but the best," Salvatore, the proud waiter, told us. "Come, I will show you."He beckoned us inside where the pizzaiolo pizzaiolo, the other Salvatore (son of Ciro), was happily stationed in front of the forno forno, a beehivelike brick oven fueled by hardwood logs that we could see glowing through the oven's open mouth. As I held up my camera to show that I wanted to take pictures of him making a pizza, Salvatore I explained to Salvatore II who we were. He smiled and nodded. I asked Salvatore II what his best pizza was, and Salvatore I translated his response. He thought that we should order a Margherita Margherita, the most famous style, but that we should also try a special pizza that he had invented. As Salvatore I repeated that advice, I saw a proud smile appear on the second Salvatore's face, and then he said something else in Italian."He says he has, how do you say, marked this, registered this pizza.""You mean trademarked it?" I asked.Big smile, nods all around, "Yes, like that. He calls it his Vesuvio pizza. It is very good, you will see."He explained that it was made with the famed mozzarella di bufala mozzarella di bufala, and also black truffles and tomatoes, to which I reprised my usual, "Bring it on."More nods, more smiles. I took pictures of Salvatore II making the pizzas as Salvatore I filled in more of the story. He asked if we had been to Naples, and I explained that we were headed there in a few days. He said we should go to Pizzeria Brandi, where the pizza Margherita pizza Margherita was invented and also where Salvatore II had learned to make authentic DOC pizza. was invented and also where Salvatore II had learned to make authentic DOC pizza."You know DOC?" he asked, p.r.o.nouncing the word "dock," not as three initials."Yes, I know DOC," I replied. DOC, which stands for Denomin.a.z.ione di Origine Controllata, is a government system that regulates the standards for some Italian foods and beverages, primarily cheeses and wines. But in this instance the designation means that a pizza is made according to strict guidelines established by the a.s.sociazione della Vera Pizza Napoletana."We're DOC here," he told me.[image]A pizza marinara pizza marinara about to go in the about to go in the forno forno for its 60-second bake at about 800 degrees. for its 60-second bake at about 800 degrees. (photo credit 1.3) (photo credit 1.3)So I watched Salvatore II make our first official pizza napoletana pizza napoletana. It was not a flashy process-there was no tossing of a disk into the air-but rather a brisk working of the dough into a circle on a floured counter, followed by a swift knuckling of it by one hand to stretch it a bit further, about ten inches across. He placed it on a floured wooden peel, spread it with a small amount of sauce made from fresh-looking crushed tomatoes, arranged four large basil leaves on top, and then scattered shredded fresh cow's milk mozzarella, known as fior di latte fior di latte, over the surface. Salvatore II told us that mozzarella di bufala mozzarella di bufala, the prized fresh cheese made from the milk of the water buffalo, was saved for special pizzas, while most of the fresh mozzarella used on everyday pizzas, like the Margherita Margherita he was making, was he was making, was fior di latte fior di latte because it was less expensive and not as puddly when melted. (This is actually stretching the DOC rules, but we did not know that at the time.) He finished off the pizza with a small dusting of grated Parmesan cheese, and slid it into the oven. Then he put a small amount of what looked like sawdust or fine wood shavings on the peel and flicked them over the hot coals. They flared like a swarm of lightning bugs and created a burst of smoke. Salvatore II looked over at us with a satisfied smile. because it was less expensive and not as puddly when melted. (This is actually stretching the DOC rules, but we did not know that at the time.) He finished off the pizza with a small dusting of grated Parmesan cheese, and slid it into the oven. Then he put a small amount of what looked like sawdust or fine wood shavings on the peel and flicked them over the hot coals. They flared like a swarm of lightning bugs and created a burst of smoke. Salvatore II looked over at us with a satisfied smile.Next, he began to work on the pizza Vesuvio pizza Vesuvio, stretching the dough and then laying it on the wooden peel as he had just done for the Margherita Margherita, stopping his work after exactly sixty seconds to remove the first pizza from the oven. He returned to the dough, laying a bed of chopped fresh tomatoes on it, and then placing a small ball of mozzarella di bufala mozzarella di bufala in the center, but only after first cradling it in his hands with a gentle, affectionate rocking motion. My heart leapt as he opened a jar of black paste that released an earthy pungency into the air. It was, of course, chopped black truffle, and he spooned out a healthy dollop of it, balancing it on top of the ball of cheese. He quickly flattened a second ball of dough, cut off strips, and then laid them on top of the pizza from the rim to the center, like spokes on a wheel. He pinched the ends of the strips together on top of the now thoroughly truffled mozzarella ball, and slid the pizza into the oven. He suggested we go back to the table, where our first pizza was waiting for us. in the center, but only after first cradling it in his hands with a gentle, affectionate rocking motion. My heart leapt as he opened a jar of black paste that released an earthy pungency into the air. It was, of course, chopped black truffle, and he spooned out a healthy dollop of it, balancing it on top of the ball of cheese. He quickly flattened a second ball of dough, cut off strips, and then laid them on top of the pizza from the rim to the center, like spokes on a wheel. He pinched the ends of the strips together on top of the now thoroughly truffled mozzarella ball, and slid the pizza into the oven. He suggested we go back to the table, where our first pizza was waiting for us.The Margherita Margherita was truly wonderful, especially since it was the first supposedly official DOC pizza we had eaten, and we didn't really have anything with which to compare it. The dough puffed around the edge, creating what Salvatore I called the was truly wonderful, especially since it was the first supposedly official DOC pizza we had eaten, and we didn't really have anything with which to compare it. The dough puffed around the edge, creating what Salvatore I called the cornicione cornicione. The edge had the texture of ciabatta ciabatta, but the pie was thin toward the center. At first the slice seemed crisp, but it quickly softened. Somewhere along the journey we had been told to eat Neapolitan-style pizzas with a knife and fork and not to try to pick up the slices as you would an American-style pizza. I cut a wedge and rolled it back from the pointy nose to the cornicione cornicione, like a jelly roll. Then I sliced off a portion and ate it with my fork, working confidently as if I knew what I was doing.The pizza Vesuvio pizza Vesuvio soon arrived, and it was a fantastic sight. The strips of dough running across the top and rising toward the center gave it its namesake look. The ball of fresh mozzarella had melted into a semiliquid state, and the black truffle paste running through it in rivulets was reminiscent of molten lava. The chopped tomatoes brought some acidity and liveliness to the flavors, while the top crust, although not solid, gave the pizza the quality of a calzone. In the end, I thought the dough strips took away from the overall flavor of the pie, diluting the impact of the amazing truffled flavor that flowed from the "volcano." I'm ashamed to admit I had the terribly vain thought, "This is really good, but I think I can make it even better." soon arrived, and it was a fantastic sight. The strips of dough running across the top and rising toward the center gave it its namesake look. The ball of fresh mozzarella had melted into a semiliquid state, and the black truffle paste running through it in rivulets was reminiscent of molten lava. The chopped tomatoes brought some acidity and liveliness to the flavors, while the top crust, although not solid, gave the pizza the quality of a calzone. In the end, I thought the dough strips took away from the overall flavor of the pie, diluting the impact of the amazing truffled flavor that flowed from the "volcano." I'm ashamed to admit I had the terribly vain thought, "This is really good, but I think I can make it even better."As our meal wound down, I became lost in my own musings. I was thinking about the tweaks I might make to the Vesuvio, until I suddenly shook myself free of such thoughts, aware that I was beginning to step on sacred pizza turf. I quickly tempered my irreverence by adding the thought, "Well, maybe it will be more perfect when we get to Naples." But first we had to go through Rome.ROMEAn American we met on the train to Rome told us we should go to Da Baffetto for the best Roman-style pizza, and since it was a mere ten-minute walk from our hotel we did, pa.s.sing numerous other pizzerias along the way. There is something liberating about having a recommended place, even if it comes from a stranger. It fit the spirit of the hunt, and it didn't hurt that it was also on a published list of best pizzerias in Rome that someone else had given us.Da Baffetto had a tiny interior, but it had a lot of picnic tables along the side of the building, and the tables were full, always a good sign. We sat at the only empty bench. Almost immediately another couple was a.s.signed to the two vacant seats next to us by the rough-and-tumble-but-heart-of-gold-looking host. I almost always, automatically, impulsively, imagine a backstory for interesting-looking waiters or restaurant workers. At Da Baffetto, the entire crew was backstory worthy; they all looked like motley sailors, pirates really, who, without warning, could break into "Blow the Man Down," or its Italian equivalent. They were all smiling, especially the two pizzaioli pizzaioli, who were working as a team. One guy shaped the dough, stretching it thin and flat, into a circle larger than the Neapolitan-style pizza we had had in Florence. He laid it out on a large wooden peel, and then the other man sauced it, topped it, and slid it into a brick oven, where it baked for two or three minutes. It emerged as a thin pizza with a nice char around the edge and even on the cheese. The crust was nearly cracker crisp with very little air in it, and without the puffed edge of a Naples pizza.The young couple seated next to us were Americans, and they seemed familiar with the menu. I asked them if they'd been to Da Baffetto before."We discovered this place on our first night here, three days ago, and have eaten here every night since," the husband said. "I don't know if it's just because were are in Rome, or maybe because we haven't had great pizza before, or maybe even because this is our honeymoon, but this is the best pizza I've ever had in my life."I would never discount the "aah Roma" factor in falling in love with a place, but whenever I hear the words, "The best I've ever had," I take them seriously. So I asked, "Well, do you have any good pizza where you live?"They looked at each other, trying to recall, and then he said, "Well, actually, we do have a couple of places we like. We used to think they were good, but now ...," and they drifted off into the kind of semiswoon that happens only when lovers are caught in the thrall of finding their own special place. Our dining companions definitely had a contented "we'll always have Da Baffetto" look. It's nice to be around that look.Susan and I were hoping to have our own bonding moment, but when our Margherita Margherita and prosciutto pizzas came, we knew by the first bite that as good as they were, and they were good, this was not going to be an "our place" moment. The sauce of crushed tomatoes, the fresh and dry cheeses, the char-they were all great. Both pizzas were executed, in their style, about as well as I could imagine they could be done. But there was something about the ultrathin crust that didn't work for either of us. It was as if it was too slight when matched up against the bold flavors of the toppings. and prosciutto pizzas came, we knew by the first bite that as good as they were, and they were good, this was not going to be an "our place" moment. The sauce of crushed tomatoes, the fresh and dry cheeses, the char-they were all great. Both pizzas were executed, in their style, about as well as I could imagine they could be done. But there was something about the ultrathin crust that didn't work for either of us. It was as if it was too slight when matched up against the bold flavors of the toppings.Would I go back to Da Baffetto? Absolutely. We had other pizzas in this same style while in Rome and none was as tasty. But is it one of my favorites of all time? I can only say that the style itself precludes it from making my hall of fame. I am, after all, a bread baker and love an undulating, holey cornicione cornicione. So I learned this much: the Roman crackerlike crust is not my favorite style, but within that style, there are some excellent versions.[image]Don't be fooled by the una.s.suming exterior of Antico Forno. Inside, treasures abound for the long line of customers waiting to indicate how big a piece of pizza bianca pizza bianca or or pizza rossa pizza rossa they would like sliced from the 7-foot "plank." they would like sliced from the 7-foot "plank." (photo credit 1.4) (photo credit 1.4)I thought that would end my Roman pizza tasting, but then I remembered a place that Faith Willinger had told us was a must-see. Called Antico Forno, it was a bakery located in Campo dei Fiori, a large square in central Rome that is the site of a farmers' market each morning. Only two kinds of pizza are made there: bianca bianca, topped only with olive oil and salt, and rossa rossa, brushed with a red sauce. Similar versions in other places are called by at least two names, pizza al taglio pizza al taglio (by the slice) and (by the slice) and pizza al metro pizza al metro (by the meter). Basically this is a long pizza, over two meters, and it's fun to watch it being made, which they let you do at Antico Forno. In a room adjacent to the sales shop, with its own door open to the outside, a team of bakers rolls out b.a.l.l.s of dough into lengths of about seven feet and about one-quarter inch thick. This is done in a couple of stages, as the dough must relax a few times along the way before it will yield to the baker's final push to its full length. But it would be difficult to slide a seven-foot banner of dough into the oven, so the bakers (and this is the part that Faith enthused over) scrunch the dough back accordion style until it is about three feet long and then jiggle it off the peel, carefully extending it to its full length on the oven deck. It bakes for five to seven minutes and comes out of the oven golden brown and crisp. The bakers transfer the pizzas to a rack, from which the man at the cash register retrieves them for sale. (by the meter). Basically this is a long pizza, over two meters, and it's fun to watch it being made, which they let you do at Antico Forno. In a room adjacent to the sales shop, with its own door open to the outside, a team of bakers rolls out b.a.l.l.s of dough into lengths of about seven feet and about one-quarter inch thick. This is done in a couple of stages, as the dough must relax a few times along the way before it will yield to the baker's final push to its full length. But it would be difficult to slide a seven-foot banner of dough into the oven, so the bakers (and this is the part that Faith enthused over) scrunch the dough back accordion style until it is about three feet long and then jiggle it off the peel, carefully extending it to its full length on the oven deck. It bakes for five to seven minutes and comes out of the oven golden brown and crisp. The bakers transfer the pizzas to a rack, from which the man at the cash register retrieves them for sale.[image]Three pieces of dough ready to be transformed into seven-foot-long pizzas at Antico Forno in the Campo dei Fiori section of Rome. (photo credit 1.5) (photo credit 1.5)Early one morning while Susan slept in, I visited Antico Forno and watched the bakers create plank after plank, snapping pictures with my camera, much to their delight. I couldn't wait to try some. When it was time to place my order, I imitated those who had gone before me and held my hands out to indicate a piece about eighteen inches long. Pretending to know what I was saying, I said, "Uno rouge et uno bianca."The cash register guy asked, "One red and one white?"I smiled, nodded, and, I think, blushed.When I returned to the hotel, I had only six inches of each type left, which I vowed to save for Susan. She finally woke up and I gave her what remained of the two pizzas, now just four inches of each. She devoured them."This is really good. I like it much better than the focaccia in Genoa. Is that all you got?" she asked."Afraid so," I replied quietly. "But we could go back and get some more."NAPLESWhen hearing about the pizza of Naples from a person who has just been there, one can easily be convinced that real pizza doesn't exist in the United States. Send an American to Naples and it is as if he or she has seen the burning bush-that person's pizza world has been rocked and will never be the same again, or so it seems. The once-hallowed pizza americana pizza americana (my catchall term for mainstream American pizza) is suddenly perceived as an abomination; even the neighborhood Naples-style pizzeria back home, no matter how authentic, is seen as a pretender. It was clear I had to go to Naples myself to find out if I too would become a (my catchall term for mainstream American pizza) is suddenly perceived as an abomination; even the neighborhood Naples-style pizzeria back home, no matter how authentic, is seen as a pretender. It was clear I had to go to Naples myself to find out if I too would become a pizza napoletana pizza napoletana zealot. zealot.The next day we took the train from Rome to Naples. Friends had warned us to the point of paranoia about the seedy side of the city, so we did our best impression of seasoned travelers, brus.h.i.+ng off the many drivers offering us cheap taxi rates and heading for the first car that had a visible meter. Our driver, Ciro, was a nice young man who proudly told us that he took Naples's bad reputation personally. It wasn't long before we let down our guard, seduced by the rhythms and charms of the bustling coastal city.We checked into the Hotel Majestic, took a walk around the neighborhood, and then decided to go to Mattozzi for our first authentic Naples pizza. Recommended by Ciro and seconded by the hotel clerk, it proved to be the perfect introduction to the joyous Neapolitan spirit. After some antipasti and a salad, Susan ordered her usual, a pizza Margherita pizza Margherita, and I ordered a caprese caprese, which is like a Margherita Margherita except that it uses small grape-sized tomatoes from Capri instead of crushed San Marzano tomatoes. The pizzas were very good, a little puffier than the DOC version we had in Florence and clearly made with except that it uses small grape-sized tomatoes from Capri instead of crushed San Marzano tomatoes. The pizzas were very good, a little puffier than the DOC version we had in Flo