Pizza Party

Venice, Italy - What better use of my time in Italy than to try to clear up the confusion surrounding an internationally favorite food? The food is pizza, and the answer is none.

I always understood that pizza was an American invention, product of Italian Americans, mind you, but nonetheless a New World creation. I now realize that misunderstanding was a product of my American upbringing (propaganda!). All authoritative sources agree that pizza as we know it comes from 18th-century Naples. The key bit is the tomato, as people had been eating flat bread with cheese for thousands of years before that. But it was the Neopolitans that added the tomato. I think we all can agree that is a defining feature.  

Apparently there is a restaurant in Naples that opened in 1830, though they had been making pizza and selling it on the street since 1738. Antica Pizzeria (as it is appropriately called) is still there today, making it the oldest pizzeria in the world. Just for the sake of comparison, the first pizzeria in the United States was opened in Manhattan in 1905 by Gennaro Lombardi (though he had been selling pizza from his grocery store since 1898). The point is that there's really no contest.

In any case, today the pizzeria is a crucial feature of the Venetian dining scene, as in all Italian cities, I suspect. Pizza-makers put their pies in the window to entice passers-by to come in for a slice. Or in some cases, they don't even have to come inside. This is the Venetian version of the drive-through window.

There is one thing that continues to confuse me, and that is the conection between certain Italian geographical locations and certain types of pizza. I learned - from writing countless restaurant reviews of pizza places in Boston - that Neopolitan pizza is a thin crispy-crust pizza; and Sicilian pizza is the square pizza with thick, chewy crust that we use to get from Mr C's Deli when I was a kid.

In Venice, all pizza has thin, crispy crust, which I celebrate (no disrespect to Mr C's). But the whole Neopolitan-Sicilian-Roman-etc-etc designation remains a mystery. At one pizza place near the Rialto bridge, the Napolitana was an anchovy pizza; add capers to that and it would become a Romana. When we went to the Pizzeria Kalia - our new favorite place that is a dangerous 17-second walk from our front door - the plain anchovy was the Romana, while anchovy and capers was called Siciliana. I have begun to believe that the geographic naming of pizzas is a clever marketing ploy designed to get people to eat more anchovies.

Not that I need any prodding. I think it is un-American to like those salty prickly little fish as much as I do. I'm sure I could have my passport revoked for putting anchovies on bread and calling it an appetizer.

But here in Italy, I seem to be among gastronomically like-minded people (does that make us similarly stomached?). Rare is the menu where the acciuga does not make an appearance. Certainly one anchovy-themed pizza is the bare minimum for any self-respecting pizzeria.

As previously mentioned, the inviting Pizzeria Kalia is right around the corner from our apartment. Why it took us two weeks to go there, I cannot explain, but we finally went for dinner on Saturday night. This is a real neighborhood place, with photos of the sponsored football team on the walls and guys in the kitchen yelling to their friends who stop by.

We ordered the Siciliana pizza, with anchovies and capers. When it arrived at our table, it had two anchovies on it.

Okay, I exaggerate. There was a third little fish bit that might generously be called "a half". So, two and a half anchovies.

This brings me to another way in which Italians and Americans are different: Italians see their pizza toppings not as a central force but as an added flourish. Here, toppings are to be used sparingly, like a condiment. At home a pizza is defined by its toppings - lots of them.

Now I have to confess, in this case I cannot deny my roots (and this is one of the most significant differences between my husband and me). He likes vanilla ice cream; I like Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby. He's happy with a plain omelet; I will empty the entire refrigerator into mine. He is likely to order a slice of cheese pizza. Not me: I like a lot of stuff.

But still, I had to admire the elegance with which our Siciliana was presented: two and a half anchovies, gracefully stretched across the pie; a scattering of capers under the cheese; and a few black olives tossed on, almost as an afterthought. Let's face it: these are ingredients that don't require high volumes. Especially in Italy, where the fish and produce seems to be so much more flavorful than back home. 

As I ate my pizza, carefully rationing out the one anchovy so that I could savor it throughout the whole piece, I found myself marveling at the spiciness of the tomato sauce and the creaminess of the mozzerella. And of course the crispy crust. Jerry declared it to be the best pizza ever; and I had to admit that this simple Siciliano was giving Emma's a run for her money.

I'm not saying that I prefer the minimalist pizza (what do I look like, a communist?) But the Kalia has me intrigued... I may have to follow up with a Romana and see how they handle that.