Pizza Pilgrimage in Naples

Ciao from Napoli, my carbohydrate-loving companions! I've arrived in the birthplace of pizza—actual pizza, not whatever they're serving at mall food courts or chain restaurants or anywhere that calls a frozen disc of sadness "pizza." Naples invented this perfect food, and Neapolitans take it very, very seriously. So seriously that UNESCO declared their pizza-making tradition a cultural heritage. I've spent a week eating approximately my body weight in dough, and I regret nothing. My spines may be greasy, but my soul is satisfied.

Real Neapolitan pizza follows strict rules. The dough must ferment for at least 24 hours. San Marzano tomatoes only. Fresh mozzarella di bufala or fior di latte. High-quality olive oil. Baked in a wood-fired oven at 485°C for exactly 60-90 seconds. The result is a pizza with a puffy, charred crust (called the "cornicione"), a thin, slightly soggy center that you fold to eat, and flavors that make every pizza you've ever had before seem like a rough draft. This is the final, perfect version.

I started at the most famous pizzeria in Naples—one that's been operating since 1870 and claims to have invented the margherita. The line wrapped around the block. I waited two hours. Worth it? Absolutely. The pizza arrived at my tiny marble table still bubbling, the mozzarella pooling into little lakes, the basil leaves wilting in the heat. The first bite was transcendent: tangy tomato, creamy cheese, aromatic basil, the slight char of the crust. I understood immediately why people had been making pilgrimages here for over a century.

Not all Neapolitan pizza is margherita, though. I tried marinara (tomato, garlic, oregano, olive oil—no cheese, surprisingly excellent), pizza fritta (fried pizza stuffed with ricotta, like a savory doughnut), and several specialty pies with local ingredients like 'nduja (spicy spreadable sausage) and friarielli (bitter broccoli rabe). Each pizzeria has its own style, its own dough personality, its own oven temperature sweet spot. Comparing them became my full-time job. It was extremely difficult work, and I shouldered it bravely.

The best pizza I had was at a small neighborhood spot far from the tourist center, recommended by my Airbnb host's grandmother. No English menu. No line of foreigners. Just locals sitting at plastic tables, eating pizza and watching football on a tiny TV. The pizzaiolo had been making pizza for forty years in the same oven his father built. His margherita was perfect—simple, balanced, made with obvious expertise and zero fanfare. He refused to let me pay full price because I was "the first cactus customer." Nonna's recommendation did not disappoint.

If you're planning a Naples pizza pilgrimage, here's my advice: go beyond the famous names. Yes, the legendary spots are legendary for a reason, but the best experiences are often at neighborhood joints where the pizza costs €4 and the pizzaiolo has made the same recipe daily for decades. Don't order fancy toppings—start with margherita to judge the fundamentals. And please, fold your pizza. Don't use a knife and fork unless you want Neapolitans to weep. When in Naples, eat as the Neapolitans do. It's how pizza was meant to be enjoyed. 🌵🍕🇮🇹