My favorite contestant so far on "Best in Dough," a frothy pizza cooking competition now streaming on Hulu, is the very Italian nonna who flat-out refused to make pizza cupcakes. In the pilot episode, as the series description put it, "three feisty Italian nonnas armed with recipes from the old country" faced off against each other.
The first challenge? To make their interpretation of a pizza inspired by one of three assigned snack foods: pizza cones, nachos and cupcakes. Nonna Lina was assigned the latter.
She waited a beat, before shouting in the direction of the host: "I no came to do this." Nonna Lina came to make pizza, and this was not pizza. Ultimately, she compromised and made a round of pizza dough, fried and smeared with oozy chocolate-hazelnut spread.
Throughout the series, contestant after contestant has trotted out increasingly wild pies. There was a Philly cheesesteak pizza topped with ribbons of seasoned sirloin, strips of green pepper, caramelized onion and waxy deli slices of white American cheese. Then came a doner kebab pizza smothered in garlicky tzatziki sauce. One contestant, a college student who had just turned 21, parlayed her newfound love of drinking into making a lime and mint-topped "mojito pie."
The more I watched the show, the more I thought about the line Nonna Lina drew: This is pizza, and that is not pizza. Soon, I became plagued by a singular question: When does pizza stop being pizza? Answering it has been my recent obsession, especially since pizza is one of those foods that can inspire both a fierce protection of "classic preparations" and an appreciation for innovation that flouts tradition.
One contestant, a college student who had just turned 21, parlayed her newfound love of drinking into making a lime and mint-topped "mojito pie."
The Merriam-Webster dictionary's definition of pizza is somehow both expansively vague and limiting: "A dish made typically of flattened bread dough spread with a savory mixture usually including tomatoes and cheese and often other toppings and baked."
While it does eliminate certain dishes like the abomination that is Papa John's "Papa Bowl" — a plastic take-out bowl layered with a greasy slick of tomato or Alfredo sauce topped with cheese, chopped vegetables and meat, then baked — perhaps looking to the history of pizza would yield a clearer answer?
While there are records of many cultures dating back to antiquity baking flatbreads with several toppings, the word "pizza" was first documented in 997 AD in the southern Italian province of Gaeta (and successively in different parts of central and southern Italy). However, as David Gentilcore wrote in his book "Pomodoro!: A History of the Tomato in Italy," it wasn't until the Spanish brought tomatoes from the Americas back to Europe that pizza in its "modern form" was born.
Initially, these pizzas veered sweet. In 1891's "La Scienza in cucina e l'Arte di mangiar bene," Pellegrino Artusi's landmark Italian cookbook (the title of which roughly translates to "Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well"), all three of the written pizza recipes were sweet. However, in the 1911 edition, Artusi added a single typed sheet with a very important savory pizza recipe. It was for "pizza alla napoletana," and it had four toppings: mozzarella, tomatoes, anchovies and mushrooms.
Pizza is one of those foods that can inspire both a fierce protection of "classic preparations" and an appreciation for innovation that flouts tradition.
When people (myself included) think of a traditional Italian pizza, Pizza Napoletana — or Neapolitan style — likely comes to mind. As I found out, it also happens to have a very clear definition under the purview of the Italian government. In 2004, the country drew up a series of rules that must be met for a Neapolitan pizza to be worthy of the name; these were further reinforced in 2010 when they were presented to the European Union.
As the BBC reported, the initial rules included eight articles and six-sub clauses. These were initially published in the Gazzetta Ufficiale, a "publication normally reserved for financial and legal notices." Here are the main points:
- For a pizza to be Neapolitan, it must be round and no more than 35 centimeters in diameter.
- It must be kneaded and shaped by hand.
- The dough should be allowed to rise for at least six hours.
- Said dough must include very specific ingredients, including approved yeast and flour.
- It must be cooked in a wood-fired oven.
Additionally, only three types of Neapolitan pizza exist, according to the regulations. The first is Marinara with tomato, garlic and oregano. Next, there's Margherita, made with basil, tomatoes and cheese from the southern Apennine mountains. Finally, there's "Extra" Margherita, which must include buffalo mozzarella from the Campania region.
The document filed with the European Union's Commission of Regulations in 2010 added an additional layer of specificity:
'Pizza Napoletana' TSG [Traditional speciality guaranteed] is distinguished by a raised rim, a golden colour characteristic of products baked in the oven and a tenderness to touch and to taste; by a garnished centre dominated by the red of the tomatoes, perfectly mixed with oil and, depending on the ingredients used, the green of the oregano and the white of the garlic; by the white of the mozzarella slabs which are laid either closer together or further apart, and the green of the basil leaves, which are lighter or darker depending on the baking.
The consistency of 'Pizza Napoletana' must be tender, elastic and easily foldable; the product is easy to cut; it has a characteristic, savoury taste given by the raised rim, which has a taste typical of bread which has risen and been baked well, mixed with the acidic flavour of the tomatoes and the aroma of the oregano, garlic and basil and the flavour of baked mozzarella.
At this point, I was dozens of pages into Italian pizza regulations and beginning to feel a little underwater in my quest to nail down any kind of real line between "pizza" and "not pizza," which I knew I most likely wouldn't find. Sure, these rules provided an easy template for what's traditional, but they (understandably) immediately excluded most American regional varieties.
Now, living in Chicago, I've heard all the jokes about our deep-dish being more casserole than pizza, but these rules would also cast out our beloved tavern-style pizza — which contributor Maggie Hennessy described beautifully for Salon as the perfect balance of "crackly crunch; stretchy, char-speckled mozzarella; and tangy-sweet red sauce." And rightly so — neither are Neapolitan-style pizza.
The same goes for New York-style pizza and California-style pizza . . . and whatever vibrant regional varieties dot the country between the coasts.
California-style pizza, for what it's worth, is perhaps one of the most useful templates (outside of New York-style pizza) for what constitutes modern American pizza. It's an amalgam of New York and Italian pizza-making techniques and fresh locally-grown toppings. Things really kicked off for California-style pizza at Alice Waters' Chez Panisse, where the cooks incorporated flavors like local goat cheese and greens into the pies.
Then came Ed LaDou, the pizza chef for Wolfgang Puck's Spago. He expanded the definition of what goes on a pizza, experimenting with items such as clams, eggplant, mustard and pâté.
"Ed really set the tone for the pizza," Mark Peel, a former chef at Spago, once told the LA Times. "Wolfgang had a great sense of taste, but he was not a pizza maker by any means. Ed was highly skilled, fast and clean. He was an intelligent guy who made a great, great crust. There are people who have built empires on less."
LaDou, who died in 2008, is widely credited as the creator of the barbecue chicken pizza. He went on to help develop the menu for the national chain California Pizza Kitchen, where his version of said pizza is still on the menu. While I'm sure the idea of barbecue sauce-slathered chicken on pizza initially made some pizza purists clutch their pearls, it's a definitive part of American pizza history.
Amid all this, I called my friend Max Balliet, the chef/owner of Louisville's Pizza Lupo (whose Milk & Honey pizza — a play on the classic quattro formaggi pie — carried me through the dark, early days of the pandemic).
"I am not a snobby guy," he told me over the phone. "Even though I care deeply about the tradition and the craft of pizza, if I'm in the right mood, I'll eat some silly pizza."
"I am not a snobby guy. Even though I care deeply about the tradition and the craft of pizza, if I'm in the right mood, I'll eat some silly pizza."
As Balliet puts it, Neapolitan-style pizza is one of his "guiding lights" in terms of inspiration and execution. New York-style pizza is the second.
"When we started, we tried to get the Neapolitan certification for authenticity," Balliet said. "There's a sanctioning board that will give you a stamp that says you are certified, and they wouldn't give it to me because of a few different things that I feel very strongly about."
Namely, he said, the sanctioning board isn't big on sourdough crust, which is a key (and delicious) part of Pizza Lupo's recipes. There are certain toppings Balliet personally wouldn't reach for when making pizza, such as cheap barbecue sauce or pineapple. But that wouldn't stop him from eating a pizza with similar toppings at a party.
Then Balliet said something that made me realize I'd been approaching the question of "Is it pizza?" wrong.
"I guess I'm going to go in the opposite direction of your question," he told me with a laugh. "Instead of 'What keeps pizza from being pizza?' I'm saying that this is all you need for a pizza to be, well, pizza."
You see, Balliet's favorite pizza is a simple tomato pie. Good crust, a swirl of marinara — and that's it. That's when pizza starts becoming pizza. Where you take it from there — and where you ultimately stop — well, I guess that's up to you.
