Pizzeria Vesuvius

Written by Joshua Burdette

Some men dream of power. I dream of pizza. In my pizza dreams I’m slinging pies in a place called Pizzeria Vesuvius, evoking the ash preserved wood ovens of Pompei that served Pliny the Elder one last slice before the apocalyptic eruption. La pizza o la morte.

There’s good pizza and there’s great pizza. When it’s good it’s good and when it’s bad it’s good. But when the dough has been fermented for two days and makes giant bubbles and blisters in the heat of a wood fired oven, when it’s topped with a simple sauce of crushed tomatoes and oil, with low moisture mozzarella and a sprinkle of fresh basil, it’s heavenly.

Some pizzaiolos rely on the ingredients to do the heavy lifting, as if truffle oil or roasted figs could save a pie from subpar dough. I’m not against extravagant toppings or the combination of ingredients—it’s just that I haven’t graduated. I’m still working on the margherita, the deceptively simple base from which all pies descend. Tomatoes, cheese, basil. The colors of the Italian flag. A glug of oil. Sea salt. Chili flakes. At this level of purity, perfection is unattainable.

This will be the first of many pizza posts. Recipes and methodology forthcoming.