Article: Pizza Italia - that's amore

Whatever happened to the tomato pie? The last really good pizza I had was in Verona, Italy, at a small restaurant on the Via Mazzini overlooking the ancient Roman amphitheater. In a Proustian way it evokes delicious memories of a pizza past. In a Hamlet way it causes me to fall into melancholia, desperate for a really good, really Italian pizza.

Sitting on the terrazzo - yet with a bird's-eye view of the wood-burning oven just inside - I watch the pizzaioli, or pizzamaker, with deep admiration. He takes his work seriously; he is an artisan - his demeanor tells me this. He has built a perfect fire, the glow of the embers so fiery a blacksmith could forge iron.

His movements are swift and ...

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