Roberto, vieni qui!

The voice beckoned from beyond the smokey haze in the alleyway. I'm all of 11, maybe 12 years old, walking home from the bus-stop in my little gated community in Parco Azzuro, just outside of Pozzuoli, a "suburb" of Napoli. It's a warm spring day, the walk is all uphill until the end of the alley, then my house is four doors down. The alley is narrow, and mostly stairs. One side is roughly hacked brush, and the other is a wall of a building, which houses a storeroom/warehouse with an office of some sort, and the neighborhood restaurant.

The voice beckoned again. It was the pizzaiolo, leaned up against the wall just outside the back door. His half-smoked cigarette dangling precariously from his lip, beer bottle dangling from one hand, while he beckoned with his other. "Vieni qui," (come here, or if you prefer the mobster movie Italian accent "kham ear!".

Forgive me if I forget his name, it was a long time ago, but anyway, I "came here" to where he was gesturing, and we went into the back of the kitchen. In Italian, he asks me if I want to learn. I am agog! You see, the pizzaiolo of a restaurant in southern Italy in those days, is the star of the show. Seriously, THE MAN. And he wants to teach, ME. I'ma gonna be a famous! "Si, Grazie mille!", say. He replies, "Bene, a domani!" This was the beginning of a love affair.

Now I could go on about pizza like Bubba can describe all the ways shrimp can be prepared. This little missive is just an overview of my experiences.

I learned to mix the dough in that shop. I learned how to stretch and toss and fold and pound and do it all over again. I learned the water had to be just the right temperature. I learned that a damp towel draped over the bowl of dough worked better in the dry heat of summer and fall, while a dry towel over the bowl was better in the winter and spring. I learned that the tomatoes had to be roma, and they needed to be gently rolled before being sliced and mashed into the sauce with a bit of wine and salt. I learned that the mozzarella di buffalo could be as old as seven days, but after eight, it was too salty. I learned that the olive oil had to be superior extra virgin, or "dimenticalo del tutto" (forget it altogether). I learned that the basil leaves had to be just about half the size of your palm. Too big, and they burn, too small, and they become stringy. And this, my dear reader, is the simplest, yet most revered of all pizza in southern Italy. The Margherita. Emblematic of the flag, an embodiment of tre colori, the simplistic endeavor that embodies comfort food for Napolitanos.

I learned this while walking home from the school bus for a few weeks. Then, the pizzaiolo felt I could unveil my newfound skills to my family, the next time we came to the restaurant for dinner. I was nervous as hell, but ready to flaunt my skills. For weeks, I would hint at wanting to eat at the Trattoria but wasn't taken seriously. I continued to hone my craft, learning a few other recipes, such as spinach and artichoke. Proscuitto and smoked mozzarella. Four cheeses with no pomodoro. All simple but epic flavors. I was never permitted to load or unload the wood-fired oven with the peel (wooden pizza shovel), but on occasion, I was allowed to load the wood.

Then, one afternoon, when dad was home from his travels, we decided to go eat at the Trattoria. I was instantly nauseous but managed to keep my composure and check my nerves. We walked down the street, and I habitually turned down the alley steps, accidentally leaving my parents wondering what epic weirdness I was up to. I made some comment about my usual shortcut to the bus stop, and I think they bought it. We headed around the front of the building, and went through the front door. The owners sat us and brought some "minerale con gasso" (sparkling mineral water) and menus.

I pushed all of the pizza from my repertoire, but my dad wanted spaghetti vongole. My mom felt something was up, so she was leaning toward my suggestions. Meanwhile, my hero, the pizzaiolo made eye contact with me, grinned, and prepped the counter. He tipped the waitress off, and she made several comments about the fresh mozzarella that came in, the special basil that was available, brought the antipasti out with the paper thin proscuitto, and commented how good it is on the pizza. My dad caved. We each placed an order for pizza, chosing three recipes, all of which I knew by heart. The ticket was written, the waitress grinned, gave me a shoulder chuck, and marched the ticket to the pizzaiolo.

"ROBERTO! VENI QUI!" boomed from the corner where the pizza oven sat. "Si, signore!" I responded, kicking back my chair, whipping my napkin from my lap with a flourish. "Sto arrivando!"

The shock and surprise on my parent's faces was unforgettable. Dinner was great, I was proud of my achievement and was well praised. That little place is still there to this day, having changed hands countless times and been many different types of restaurants, but if I ever get to go back, I will have a Peroni outside the back door, while sitting on those alley steps. I may even have a cigarette.

Some pizza highlights in my lifetime:

Pizza by the Meter, Sorrento Italy: You literally order what you want, and by how many meters you'd like. Seriously, no joke. It is presented in a rectangle. The dough is literally run through a press, run along a cornmeal counter, loaded, and run through the oven. They measure your meter quantity and cut it off like fabric.

Best Taco Pizza ever: Pizza Haven. I worked there for a year. The secret was the bean sauce mixed with sour cream, then adding fresh shredded lettuce and corn chips before you cut the pizza. Garnish with diced tomato and grated cheddar.

Best "Burger" pizza ever: Godfather's Pizza. They added pickles. It was EPIC!

Second best was the Dominos version. Ask for light sauce, have them add onions over the cheese, and breakfast style bacon. Dip it in your own bbq sauce. Outstanding.

Favorite Frozen pizza: Red Baron. I mean, what do you expect from a grocery store? Well, I like the Red Baron.

Favorite Take and Bake: Papa Murphy's, the chicken bacon ranch with artichokes, or their combo. we like both.

Opinion on pineapple: whatever floats your boat. I have not turned down a slice with pineapple.

I used to do a challenge with my crew when I was managing stores. The bet was $5 that I couldn't eat a jalapeno pizza. I would ask to add pineapple to it, and people would absolutely think that was disgusting. Now, raw, yeah, that is terrible, but cooked? The pineapple sweetness negates the jalapeno heat, and the cheese blends the two fruits together. I earned plenty of beer money that way!

My favorite pizza of all time: The King Arthur Supreme from Round Table. I worked at a store for 375 days right after high school. Loved some of my coworkers: Bonnie the manager, Vince in the kitchen, Donna and Sandra on the counter. Jesse could blow the most epic smoke rings, even from his nostrils, but as the lead cook and oven guy, he was money. And super funny. But the pizza from this place? DAMN. I have been ordering the supreme for FORTY years. We had one tonight. I drove for 40 minutes each way and joyfully paid a premium. It's a treat in our house.

Almost a noteworthy career: Dominos. I learned a lot from this chain. I worked in countless stores. I delivered pizzas, mad pizzas, managed shifts, managed stores, was a district manager for a small franchise group, worked with a regional director in a local corporate office, took on difficult stores and turned them around, and at one point had a side business covering managers who needed vacation time away. I learned the KISS methodology of manufacturing and fast paced/instant demand business models and learned a lot about people. I also learned a lot about myself, too. The food used to be good, but now, I find it mediocre. I still have loyalty though.

Did I ever get sick of pizza? Yes! After 7+ years of eating pizza almost exclusively when I worked for Dominos, and then a few years where I moonlighted as a contractor for them, I got to the point where I couldn't stand the smell of it. That lasted for about three years before I could stomach the thought of pizza. It was Roundtable that brought me back.

Enough for tonight, I hope you enjoyed a slice of my life! Ciao!