AfterTaste (by Sherry)

One of the things I miss most about living in Italy/being in Italy on vacation is the Neopolitano-style of pizza. When done right, it is, in my opinion, one of the most delectable, enjoyable, delicious foods in the entire world. And the best thing is, it appeals to almost everyone. Well, maybe that’s just pizza in general, but I think anyone who says he/she doesn’t like Neopolitan-style pizza just hasn’t had the authentic stuff which can prove elusive even in my beautiful city of New York where you can typically find the best of everything.

Pizza, as we know it (sauce on flat bread), is said to have originated in the city of Napoli, aka Naples, (hence, “Neopolitan”), located in southern Italy. The original and still most popular is the pizza margherita, named after Queen Margherita of Savoy whose favorite type of pizza had the colors of the Italian flag on it: white mozzarella, green basil leaves, and red tomato sauce. And even over 100 years later that flavor combination is considered the best and most classic in my (and most Italians’) book.

To me, true Neopolitan pizza is marked by several very important, distinct characteristics.

The Crust – The crust, the Crust! I could live on that crust for the rest of my life and die a happy, little foodie fool. The dough with its sublime balance of chewiness and suppleness somehow never gets soggy under the sauce and cheese (if done properly) and it blisters and chars just the right amount when baked. The crust is so deliciously thin and light that eating an entire 14-16 inch pizza on one’s own is typical in Italy. How do they achieve such absolute perfection? After my most recent trip to Napoli, I came to the conclusion that it must be either the flour or water or both. My theory was based on the fact that if it was just the pizziaioli (pizza makers) then we would’ve been able to bring them to NYC, and yet the pizza’s still not quite the same. But if the secret is in some specially milled flour that isn’t made to be exported and tap water that isn’t pumped into our reservoirs, well, that would explain why we’re just s*** out of luck, aren’t we? (NB: I’ve recently heard rumors that there is a store on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, formerly one of the heaviest Italian neighborhoods in NYC, that sells some special, very authentic flour that my sister says makes the closest thing to the pizza we ate in Napoli. Further investigation required.) For now, we’ll just have to be happy forking over $1,200 in airfare to get a taste of that chewy excellence or content settling for Lombardi’s on Spring and Mott (which is still fantastic, don’t get me wrong).

The Sauce – The tomato sauce in Italy is a beautiful thing, born of years of tradition and national pride. Everyone in Italy, and I mean everyone (northern or southern Italian), can make a basic, tasty tomato sauce, whether it’s for stewed string beans or a simple spaghetti al pomodoro (spaghetti and tomato). I thought it was some magical gene that native Italians were born with, maybe some special hormone or a special feature in their olfactory perception, but I was wrong. I discovered that this was incorrect when I was taught by my “house mother,” Mirella, how to make her spectacular tomato sauce.

“Puoi dammi la ricetta per questo piatto? E’ buonissimo!” [Can you give me the recipe for this dish? It’s amazingly delicious!] I asked her, as I literally shoveled the simple spaghetti and tomato sauce she made me my first night of my semester abroad (hello, 10 lbs weight gain abroad).

“Si, si, e’ molto facile. Io dico e tu fai.” [Yes, yes, it’s very easy. I’ll say what to do and you do it.]

She hovered and commanded while I stirred and nodded. This was the recipe: 1 inch cube of pancetta (Italian cured bacon) chopped and fried in Extra Virgin olive oil in a sauce pan with 2 cloves of sliced garlic, then two cans of supermarket brand peeled and chopped tomatoes…salt and pepper. Oh yeah, and BARILLA spaghetti. Yes, they actually use Barilla in Italy (although most Italians think it’s overpriced and just get the less well-known brand). Um, yeah, so that was it. We tossed the spaghetti and tomato together and that was that. There was no magic. Or rather I should say there was magic, but it was so subtle and mystical that even Mirella could not quite explain it to me.

“Ma non e’ possible, cosi’! Ci devono piu’ ingredienti!” [But that's not possible! There must be more ingredients!]

“I pomodori, un pezzo di pancetta, olio, aglio, sale, pepe, e basta!” [Tomatoes, a piece of pancetta, oil, garlic, salt, pepper, and that's it!] And while I’ve been able to finally develop my own recipe for a tasty from-scratch tomato sauce (recipe to follow in a few posts) in the past couple of years, it will never be as superbly simple or fresh as that humble little pot of sauce I made that day, years ago in that 3 ft by 3 ft kitchen in Italy. Thus, the mystery of the Sauce continues to elude me.

The Cheese – This, thankfully, is something we have managed to import or recreate fairly well here in New York and much of America, for that matter: whether it’s freshly pulled mozzarella, straight from a tub of hot, cloudy brine on Arthur Avenue or imported mozzarella di Bufala from the Campania region in Italy. Unfortunately, without the right sauce or crust, the cheese stands like an operatic virtuoso with no orchestra and no conductor.

Anyone have any other personal favorites for as-close-as-they-come Neopolitan pizza in NYC?