We were a week in Italy before I had pizza. This slice of cheesy goodness happened in a back street of Torino. It was thick and surprisingly fluffy. Thick enough to qualify as a baby pizza in Chicago, and to start a civil war with Napoli.
The beer was new to me. The owner seemed very concerned that I knew I was getting the champagne of beers. He told me a couple of times it was “beerchamps” or something. Anyway, it was good beer.
The pizza was fine too. Not the best I’ve ever had, but not the worst. And the thing is, some of the worst pizza in the world can be had in Italy.
This was a cheap and ready pleasure to wash down with a schooner of “beerchamps”. The shop was obviously a neighbourhood fave, with dozens of people passing through while we sat at our table. (Ching-Ching). In the Italian way there were heaps of kids necking big wedges of pizza, standing around on the cobblestones, dodging the scooters that zipped past while their parents dual wielded slices and drinks.
Everyone seemed to know each other, like a Torino Cheers. They tolerated us, because we were spending money. But I reckon in a weird way it’s easier as a tourist to eat in a spendy restaurant than a cheap street eatery. Everything happens so quickly in a cafe or pizzeria that they don’t have time to nursemaid bumbling travellers through the process of ordering and finding their place. It’s all bang bang bang and you’re done. I often find myself defaulting to stuff I know how to order in simple, rapid fire Italian, rather than struggling to ask for something more difficult.
Anyway, off to Venice next.