The city of Naples looks like it hasn’t been properly cleaned since the Second World War. Each successive generation grime is worn like a badge of honor, for Naples is a proud city. It has stood in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius and has been subject to numerous natural disasters, so the fact that it is still standing is nothing short of miraculous.
The Neapolitans themselves are utterly unique among Italians. Raw in their emotions and brutally honest, screaming is their base volume. It’s the only way they can hear each other. Everyone should visit Naples if they get the chance because, within this beehive of a city, you will find one of the most important food creations ever to beset the earth. For, in Naples, you are in the home of pizza.
I was in Naples at the start of Italy’s warm season. Sitting on the sea wall, I watched small lizards sun themselves on the warm rocks, only to be chased away moments later by one of the city’s citizen stray cats.
Thanks to the haze rising off of the Mediterranean, my ill-prepared Irish skin was becoming toasted under the hidden sun. I’d gone as part of a group tour, and the afternoon was ours to do as we pleased until it was time to catch the evening train back to Florence.
My face was betraying my lack of sunscreen, and my stomach was aching for something to eat. Knowing the general direction of the train station, I headed off in search of what one is always hungry for in Naples.
It’s very easy to find pizza shops in this city. The difficult part is remembering all of their names, or how to get there. As someone who has navigated the spiderweb of Boston, Massachusetts, I felt confident I could find my way around Naples. But now, alone in the heart of city, I was completely lost.
I remember walking by another small piazza, a blessed open space in this claustrophobic landscape. Not far beyond, I noticed a line leading towards a hole in the wall, out of which Italian voices were booming. Those in line stood calmly, but moved in rapidly. Not one of them was a tourist.
As I walked past, I could see that within that hole in the wall was small kitchen. Four men, dripping with sweat, and screaming “Rapido rapido rapido” moved around a central brick oven, which was barely able to contain its inferno. There was no name above the door, but if this was where the neighborhood got its pizza, I had to try it. I looked for a menu, but there was none. All that was scribbled on the shop chalkboard was: Pizza €5.
I got in line, and was soon handing my money over to one of the four screaming men. They worked like an assembly line. One stretched the dough. Another added sauce, cheese, and basil. The next tossed the pies in and out of the oven. As the fourth man took my cash, a small pizza emerged from the brick oven. It was placed on thin paper, rolled into a ball, and handed to me. I stared at it for a moment. Did they just hand me a ball of molten pizza? Before I could comprehend what was happening, I was being screamed at to move along.
I made my way back to the small piazza and sat down at a free table out in the sun. I was starting to get a headache, but more pressing was this ball of pizza before me.
I’d seen it come out of the oven. The cheese was still steaming and bubbling as it had been wrapped up and handed to me. I’d eaten enough pizza to know that cheese does not always like to stay attached to the crust, especially when it is fresh from the oven. I wondered whether it was worth eating. My stomach said: “You’re in Naples. Eat the damn pizza!”
Tentatively, I set the pizza ball down on the table, and released my grip on the paper holding it together.
It was like watching a slow motion time lapse of a flower blooming. Before my eyes this pizza, which should have been a disgusting, gooey mess, unfolded into a perfect pie. The cheese was in place. No sauce had dripped onto the paper. The crust was intact, and still crispy.
How had those men done it? As I bit into what I can only describe as sublime perfection, I concluded that I’d stumbled upon a secret guild of Neapolitan pizza wizards. Magic was the only explanation.
My kids stared at me as I finished the tale. They’d giggled and gasped throughout the telling, and were now gobsmacked at its resolution.
“How?” asked my eldest, calmly.
“How, Dad?!” asked my three-year-old, more loudly.
“HOW, DADDY?!” screamed my two-year-old, needed to get her say.
“I don’t know, gang. It was magic.”
They all muttered “magic” under their breath, then proceeded to laugh some more. I looked over at my wife, who smiled at me with her eyes.
The stories we tell our kids about our lives are the beginnings of how they understand the world outside of their home. My children are now convinced, as I am, that there is a secret society of pizza wizards hidden within the maze of Naples. The story has no moral or lesson to fall back on. It’s just a fun experience. And the more I relive those with my kids, the more they can see the wondrous world that exists beyond the doorstep.