Working in Vicenza, I am asked to join some folks for lunch at the Trattoria across the street from the fresh pasta factory. The place is jammed with regular Italians on their lunch break. I can smell the potential of having a lunch that is the “real deal” in the air.
“Lucky” me! The waitress is an American transplant living right here in Vicenza. Everyone else asks her in Italian to bring them their “regular” lunch (they come here almost every day) and she lingers, trying to help me with my order. I too will take pizza like the others. There is no menu of toppings. “Do you like sausage?” she beams in perfect English. “Yes!” “Do you like grilled vegetables?” she inquires, excitement building. “Yes!” “How about mozzarella?” “Of course!!” I declare, almost giddy. She assures me that she will speak with the kitchen and will deliver me a pizza I will love.
My colleagues’ pizzas arrive. Photo worthy. Perfectly thin crust. A mere grazing of tomato sauce. A touch of anchovies. Some with a hint of garlic, some a slight of chillies. If they have cheese – it’s maybe a round or two of fresh mozzarella. I can hardly wait for mine to arrive. I can see the waitress, with her wide American smile approaching. She puts her creation down in front of me.
It bears no resemblance to the pizza my colleagues are devouring. It is loaded with sausage. Heavy with grilled vegetables. Laden with cheese. This is not the pizza of Vicenza! This is not the pizza of my dreams! This is a pizza made especially for “the Canadian”! A pizza fit for the American waitress’ dreams. She is so proud. She has saved a fellow North American sister from the scantily topped pizza of Italy. She has delivered a pizza heavy with toppings, and worthy of Chicago. “Delicious!” I say when she asks how it is, while making a mental note to henceforth order “whatever they are having”.
