Prima Pizza

A flock of tourists stand in the rain, clutching their umbrellas, waiting for the doors of L’Antica Pizzeria “Da Michele” to open. It’s just before eleven in the morning. I don’t particularly feel like eating pizza right now. But if I want to avoid the hordes of tourists that I’ve seen stretched down the street from this pizzeria in recent days, then getting in early on a rainy day might be the way to do it. Unsurprisingly, there are still a couple of people who’ve had the same idea as me and are standing patiently in their ponchos, waiting for the doors to open. It’s like we are the winners of golden tickets, waiting outside Wonka’s factory.

Pizzeria Da Michele is said to be the first pizzeria. The first place pizza was made. The place pizza was maybe even invented. (People have been putting stuff on flatbread for a long time so I remain sceptical about this claim but I’m happy to indulge in the gastronomic zeitgeist, if at least momentarily.) I questioned whether the pizza was really going to be that good. There are, of course, many places to eat pizza in Napoli. As the career of Robert De Niro has shown, age is not necessarily an indicator of quality. Nevertheless, I’m standing outside going over my plan of attack. If the digital number board hanging above the door is any indicator, I’ll need to get a ticket and wait for a table. The usual wait time is ninety minutes. I don’t have time for that. I will instead ask in Italian to get a pizza “d’asporto” (takeaway). “Un pizza d’asporto. Un pizza d’asporto,” I repeat to myself.

Whilst the allure of being the first-ever pizza place (allegedly) should be a sufficient drawcard, what really brings in the seemingly endless queue of tourists these days is the seemingly endless queue of celebrities that have attended the restaurant since they opened one hundred and fifty years ago. Most notably Elizabeth Gilbert, writer of “Eat Pray Love” and Julia Roberts, recreating the moment as Gilbert in the film. Since I too am writing my own Aldi version of “Eat Pray Love,” but more so “Eat Eat Eat,” I thought I should attend. I feel like this blog is lacking a critical character arc and so replicating a scene that already exists in a well received journey of self-discovery seemed like a smart thing to do.

“Un pizza d’asporto,” I repeat to myself. The doors open. “Un pizza d’asporto.” Everyone spills in. I say proudly to the man at the door “un pizza d’asporto per favore.” I’m ignored and get seated at a table. I guess I’m eating in then.

The pizzeria serves three types of pizza, though the third variety is seldom ordered. The two kinds generally ordered are either Marinara or Margherita. But what should I order? My first inclination is to go for Marinara because Margherita seems too obvious. When I was younger I used to get strawberry rather than chocolate flavoured milk because everyone else got chocolate. I’m a fan of the underdog. Or at least of the silver meal holder. No, if I want to make the right decision, I need to break down the pizzas into their individual parts and perform a well thought-out, empirical analysis.

Both varieties have tomatoes, so I can ignore that. When it comes to herbage, Marinara has oregano and Margherita has basil. Basil wins that round for me, but only just. The other ingredients on each pizza are garlic for Marinara and Fior di Latte cheese for Margherita. I do like cheese but I think garlic wins that one, but only just. So I’ve reached a stalemate. Both pizzas have their positives. Both have reasons to order them. But maybe I have the wrong approach. Maybe comparing the pizzas on individual ingredients alone is insufficient. Is it not the unique amalgam of ingredients on dough which elevates pizza to a position greater than the sum of its parts? How do I measure such an unmeasurable factor? Maybe I should just order two pizzas?

It seems I was not the only one having this internal conflict. Below the three standard pizza varieties there is a fourth, a half-half pizza. One half Marinara, one half Margherita. My prayers have been answered. Taking my seat at the table just across from the Forrest Whitaker table, I settle in and order my half-half pizza. The anticipation in the dining room is palpable. Everyone’s eyes are running over the framed pictures and memorabilia that covers the white and green tiled walls. A pizza comes. It is mine. No one else seems to get their pizza for a while. But I don’t mind. I start eating my pizza and feel the eyes of the room staring at me, the guy who wasn’t planning on even coming inside.

The pizza is nice. But then again, maybe I am not able to appreciate it as much as I should because I’ve had pizza before. The Beatles don’t seem as groundbreaking if you grew up listening to all the music they influenced. The crust is of goldilocks thickness, not too thick and not not thin, and is slightly charred from the wood-burning oven. The pizza is noticeably wetter than other pizzas. It is not served in slices and, if memory serves me right, it’s meant to be eaten with a knife and fork. Once they get their pizzas, those sitting around me have quite a bit of trouble cutting the pizza into triangular slices and then eating it without the topping sliding off.

I enjoy the pizza. Is it the best pizza in Napoli? And therefore Italy? And therefore the world? I don’t know, I guess it’s all up to personal preference anyway. I leave back out the front door. The rain has increased along with the crowd waiting outside, clutching their umbrellas and enduring the next hour and a half wait for their first pizza.