My confession to pizza great Franco Pepe
Much as I've praised Franco's ingenious Margherita Sbagliata, it was time to tell the world's greatest pizzaiolo I liked his father's Margherita more.
When, in interviews, I challenge assumptions, it is not due to my being combative by nature. I am neither a wiseass nor a nudnik, if not for lack of trying.
It’s true, I am skeptical of conventional wisdom. If wisdom were conventional more people would have it. Even so, my primary reason for expressing contrarian views is tactical. Conflict, like oregano, must be applied at the right time in the right measure. When used judiciously it can prod the subject of an interview to open up and veer off-script.
A few days before Christmas I returned to Pepe in Grani, Franco Pepe’s pizza villa in the hilltop village of Caiazzo, with the intention of catching the world’s most acclaimed pizza maker off guard. On the drive up from Naples I rehearsed in my head the confession I would deliver to Franco prior to a pizza-tasting dinner.
Here’s the back story: Much as I revered Franco’s signature pizza, the Sbagliata, a Margherita encrypted as if in Morse code with green dots of basil and red dashes of tomato, I preferred the Margherita he prepared for me 7 years ago in his father’s way. Stefano Pepe’s Margherita was an old-school pizza in all ways except one: He sprinkled it with the local origano del Matese he gathered in the Matese foothills. Then as now, the green in the tricolore of the classic, Neapolitan-style Margherita was provided by basil, never, heaven forbid, oregano.
That whiff of oregano reminded me of the pizzas I had with my father back home and back in the day. The pizza makers at New York’s Italian restaurants and full-service pizzerias reached first for dried oregano, not fresh basil, for their so-called cheese pizzas. I don’t remember any of them using the term Margherita prior to 1975.
Why oregano? Not much oregano was growing wildly in the foothills of Brooklyn, that’s for sure. Perhaps they were repurposing a house red sauce routinely seasoned with dried oregano. Or they were seeking a substitute for fresh basil. Or their Italian origins were far from Naples and so they were unaware of Neapolitan dictates. Or maybe they just liked oregano, as Papa Pepe apparently did.
As sensitive as Franco may be when it comes to family considerations, I was sure he would not excommunicate me merely for inserting myself between him and his memories of his father. Banishment from the village was only a small possibility. 30 percent chance. 35 percent tops.
Stirring the pot with Franco was worth it, no matter the risks. The conversation would take us to the front line of a debate simmering in kitchens, dining rooms and discussion forums. Any comparison of the new and old Margheritas would raise the tradition-vs-innovation question and thereby echo a proverbial conflict that mystifies the New World as it haunts the old one. In Southern Italy it’s like dark espresso: You sip on it every morning and channel the caffeine and the bitterness into the generation struggle for or against incremental change.
Franco didn’t mind my preferring his father’s Margherita. He understood why I associated oregano with joy and happiness, just as the Romans and the Greeks. Just as he did. The aroma triggered a memory of the best pizza I ever had. It was not at Pepe in Grani. It was an oregano-flecked cheese pizza I shared with my dad at Luigino’s on West 48th Street when I was 9 years old. The only pizza that even came close was not Franco’s Margherita either, or the pizza he makes as an homage to his father’s Margherita. It was one I shared at a London pizzeria with my son, who was 5 years old at the time. That pizza had no oregano, which offers a clue: For me, the best pizzas ever had one David Young on it – my father or my son.
Franco probably feels the same way. The best pizza in his memory likely has someone named Stefano Pepe on it: His father or his son.
Franco did not view the comparison I had raised as one reflecting any generational conflict between preservation and transformation. Much as we rebel against our parents, we discover in later years we have more in common with them than we imagine. Only very recently did Franco make this observation: His father the pizzaiolo was guided by the same spirit of innovation and localism as he was.
“We interpreted our territory,” recalls Franco. “My father modified his Margherita with oregano from the Matese foothills. I reimagined mine with the local pomodoro riccio (“curly tomato”) and created the Margherita Sbagliata. Both Margheritas were born from the same will to love the land.”
About 10 years ago, the inventive Greek chef Christoforos Peskias made this admission: Every day his goal was to create a modern dish equal to and maybe even superior to the classic Greek salad (Horiatiki), even though deep down he knew this was a futile endeavour. No matter the modern miracles he performed with Feta powder or tomato foam, there was no improving upon something so simple and perfect as a country-style Greek salad dressed only with salt, extra virgin olive oil and – what else? – oregano.
I imagined Franco feeling the same way about his father’s Margherita. Despite his heroic efforts to invent a pizza superior to his father’s version, did he secretly know the objective that motivated him was unattainable?
“That’s what I’ve always said,” Franco confessed. “When innovation is grounded in simplicity it’s hard to raise the bar.”
PizzaMonday Tasting at Pizzeria Mozza
The next Young & Foodish event is the PizzaMonday Tasting Dinner at Pizzeria Mozza on February 26th. If you expect to be in or near London I hope you will join us. Click here for more info and booking details.