Martin never really got pizza. By 'got' I mean understood. He's a Brit. so grew up where every town has an Indian food restaurant compared to myself who grew up where pizzarias are ubiquitous, so pizza wasn't as much a part of his Friday nights as was mine. Everytime I'd have a craving he'd ask what's so special about 'glorified cheese on toast' and 'bad cheese at that'. I assured him that someday I would take him to Italy and he would taste real pizza - proper pizza - and that he would love it.
Today is the day to make good on that promise.
A sunny day, a popular pizza stop (
Forno di Campo de’Fiori), good friends - it won't get better than this.
We each tried a different choice then took bites, passed it around, took bites, etc. so everyone tried all. Thin, but not crunchy dough with just a bit of olive oil and salt, then either nothing (pizza bianca) or tomatos (pizza rossa), zuccini, mozzarella, proscuitto. Locals tend to fold over the large rectangle and eat it like a sandwich.
I loved it, although it's true that pizza bianca is really just a flatbread not unlike focaccia. But what I thought didn't really matter as all eyes turned to Martin, who shrugged and said it was good, certainly better than he'd had before and that he now 'got' it. But he still wasn't all that keen on it.
Well, if you don't like pizza in Italy, you won't like it anywhere.
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