I must confess that I am not a huge fan of pizza — at least the kind that one finds in most pizzerias in America. And, yes, I’ve had both Chicago-style and New York-style pizzas at the source; and while I found both delicious and satisfying, neither experience holds strong in my memory as an outstanding one. No, my fondest recollections of great pizza dwell in Italy, a dozen years apart.

In 2000, my sisters and I visited Naples. After a morning in Pompeii (fascinating), we found ourselves back in the city, wandering side streets near the Piazza de Plebescito in search of a restaurant with a wood-fired oven. Having heard this is where pizza originated, we wanted to be sure to have an authentic experience. Seated at an open window in an upstairs room at the end of the midday rush, we each ordered individual pizzas. My pizza Margherita was delectable, the crust thin and crisp, the simple ingredients perfectly balanced, the sum a symphony of flavor and absolutely satisfying.

My second transcendent pizza experience occurred this past fall in a little town about 30 miles northwest of Rome. I don’t recall if the place even had a name beyond “Pizzeria,” but I have no trouble remembering my reaction to the individual pizzas which came forth from the kitchen. Almost every one of the twelve of us had ordered his or her own pie, and each round was 15 and a half inches across! (I know this for a fact; I pulled my measuring tape from my purse and checked.) The crust was even thinner than my Neapolitan pizza — almost cracker-like, the sauce savory and thinly applied so as to not overwhelm the fresh mozzarella and other toppings. These also were delicately arranged: slices of housemade sausage were nearly transparent, tomatoes and onions were paper-thin, fresh herbs were finely chopped. Ahhh, and the funghi! Before we ordered, our host brought out an enormous basket of just-harvested morels, gnarly and earthy. These now appeared, in fine pieces lightly scattered, on our pizzas — heaven! With the toppings delivered with such a light hand and the crust merely a support for them, all of the flavors could come through, and those 15-plus-inch disks were handily consumed.

Now, I will readily concede that my overwhelming preference for those Italian pizzas over my American ones might be due in large part to the location of my dining experiences there, but one can’t ignore the deft handling of those fresh, homegrown and homemade ingredients, either.

— Patty Vanikiotis, associate editor/copy editor