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Under the Volcano

Naples is a crazy place. It’s sprawling, loud, messy, hot, and irresistibly romantic all at the same time. After all, it’s right at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, the still-smoldering volcano that took out Pompeii and that’s long overdue for an eruption of equal magnitude. And the thing that Naples is probably the most crazy about is pizza.

Let’s just say it falls somewhere between tradition and religion.

Now, whether you’re a fan of thin-crust, lightly charred Neapolitan pizza or not, you have to realize that in Italy, the pizza of Naples is the gold standard that defines the category—the way Champagne does for sparkling wine—and, just like Champagne, it’s given national-treasure status. The Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana (AVPN) was founded in 1984 to give DOC (Denomination of Controlled Origin) status to Neapolitan pizza, strictly regulating everything from the ingredients and the size to the cooking methods. The two most famous types of Neapolitan pizza are marinara, with tomato sauce, garlic, oregano, and olive oil, and margherita, with tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, basil, and olive oil. Da Michele, one of the city’s oldest and best-known pizzerias has served only these two varieties since 1870, referring in their promotional materials to all other pizza toppings as papocchie—Neapolitan slang for “phony tricks.”

As a pizzaiolo, achieving certification from the AVPN is the ultimate stamp of approval. Well, almost. The ultimate would be winning the World Pizza Cup in Naples.

Once a year, pizza makers come from all over the planet to do battle on hallowed pizza ground. I went in 2007 and competed in several categories, the most intimidating of which, by far, is the STG (Specialità Tradizionale Garantita, or “Guaranteed Traditional Specialty”) Napoletana. It’s the holy grail. You can choose margherita, margherita extra, or marinara. I went with the classic margherita. The dough is salt, water, flour, and yeast or starter. The topping is San Marzano tomatoes, sea salt, fresh mozzarella, and basil. Period. When something is that simple and that sacred, and you’re going to make it for a panel of Neapolitan pizzaiolos, you’re looking at a challenge of Vesuvian proportions, even under the best of conditions. No wonder an American had never won.

On June 13, the day of the competition, it was over 100 degrees outside and muggy. But inside the tightly sealed tented arena, it was even worse, with six wood-burning ovens blazing at 900 degrees. When my number for the Neapolitan category was called, I grabbed my wooden kit box with my dough and my tools and walked over to meet the judges.

A young contestant from Naples rolled his eyes at my kit and mumbled something that sounded snide. I looked at the translator, who said, “He makes fun of you. He says, you know, you can get those in metal now.” As I was wondering whether or not to reply, my judge, an elderly third-generation Neapolitan pizzaiolo came to my defense. “Before there was metal, there was wood,” he said. “Maybe he’s old-fashioned. Maybe he likes tradition.” I took a deep breath and smiled. I do like tradition, and especially at a time like this.

When I was making my dough the day before, I tasted the tap water. Not good. Campania is a volcanic region, and the municipal water tastes and smells like sulfur. All the international competitors had chosen to use bottled water. But I went with the smelly stuff from the tap. I figured the judges were from here, and this was the water they worked with every day.

For good luck, I used a bit of dough I’d brought with me from California as an “old-dough” starter. I let my dough balls rise in a wooden box, another nod to tradition. The dough looked and felt perfect, and I swear it had a faint aroma that I can only describe as “authentic.”  

But that was yesterday. In the sweltering heat of the tent, the dough I’d prepared so carefully was almost “blown”—the dreaded condition of over-rising, after which it starts to soften and deflate. Another few minutes could mean disaster.

Drenched in sweat and barely breathing between the humidity and the stress, I opened my first dough ball and pushed it out.

You’re assigned a single judge, who follows you to the prep station and the oven to watch every move you make, scribbling notes on a clipboard. Mine was from Naples, and I could feel his squinting skepticism as I reached for my spoon and laid out a neat spiral of sauce, starting at the center, exactly as dictated in the official competition rules. Unlike most of the competitors, I had seeded my tomatoes for a more concentrated flavor, the one break from tradition that I thought might actually improve on it. Then I added the basil, salt, and mozzarella, which I had drained briefly in cheesecloth to remove some of the water.

Once your dough is shaped, you have to slide your pizza onto the peel without ever picking it up, and you need to center it just right so the edges don’t hang over. You’ve got one shot, and in the sweltering rain-forest heat of the tent, the dough was unusually soft and moist. Professional pizzaiolos had been screwing up all day, making football-shaped pizzas and worse.

I shaped my dough to a 91/2-inch round—much smaller than the regulations require—topped it, and told my judge I was ready for my peel. More looks of skepticism. But when I slid my pizza onto the peeI, I stretched it to a perfect 13 inches—a risky technique that worked just right this time. I slid it onto the oven floor and breathed a sigh of relief, which turned into a gasp as a glowing ember broke off from an overhanging piece of wood and just missed hitting my pizza.

I counted, “one alligator, two alligators,” turning my pizza every 15 “alligators,” and pulled it out at what turned out to be exactly 89.5 seconds. Any more than 90 seconds and I would have been disqualified on the spot.

I plated my pizza and slid it over to the judge, who aggressively lifted one side high off the plate and held it up for what should have been a second or two to see if it would bulge or break. He held it up for five seconds, then ten, then twenty. It didn’t break. “Molto bene,” he said, but his tone sounded more angry than approving. He dropped the pizza back onto the plate, poked it to test its texture, and then grudgingly waved me on to the judge’s table.

There, a tan, impeccably dressed, leather-faced Neapolitan woman interviewed me about every detail of my pizza in the hopes of tripping up the “Americano.”

“Your cheese?”

“Fior di latte.”

“Not mozzarella di bufala?”

I knew it was a trick question. Only the margherita “extra” is made with buffalo mozzarella. “No, signora.”

She looked at me, stone-faced. “How much sugar?”

Another trick question. “None, signora.”

“How much oil in your dough?

“None in the dough, signora, only drizzled on the top before I baked it.”

“And your tomatoes.”

“San Marzano, signora. Seeded.”

She raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Then the judges took a taste and showed absolutely no reaction. But I knew my pizza was just what I wanted it to be, and I walked away knowing that even though I was going to lose, I had done my best.

My team—Tony Palombino, Glenn Cybulski, Billy Manzo, Nacy Puglisi and my wife, Julie—were gathering around me to try a bit of what was left, when an assistant came over to me and swooped it out from under our noses, saying that the judges wanted to taste my pizza one more time. This was a good sign. Those judges taste sixty slices a day. They take one bite and throw the rest in the trash, and they never taste anything twice.

That afternoon, I had eaten lunch with a bunch of Neapolitans, and I knocked over my glass of wine. I was starting to clean it up, when they all stopped me, and said, “No! Rub it on your forehead! It’s good luck.” I have never rubbed anything on my forehead so fast. Then I rubbed some more all over my body just for good measure. “I need all the luck I can get!” I said, and we all had a good laugh.

“You know, there’s another reason it’s your lucky day, Tony,” one guy said. “It’s your saint’s day.” I hadn’t realized that June 13 is the feast day of Saint Anthony of Padua.

That night, with thousands of people packed into the arena, my team and I sat at a table together, waiting to hear the results. They announced third place, and then second place, and then there was a long pause. I’ll never forget the words I heard next.

“The first prize in the Neapolitan category goes to . . . from Castro Valley, California, United States . . . Tony Gemignani.”

There was a split second of heavy silence. And then Vesuvius erupted.

Amid the screaming and pandemonium, a dozen cops surrounded our table, told us to stay calm, stand up, and follow them quickly to the front to claim the trophy. “Don’t show any excitement,” they told me. All I wanted to do was whoop and scream and dance on the table. But I figured I should respect their instructions. They seriously wanted to make sure we didn’t get stabbed or shot.

It was one of the greatest, weirdest moments of my life. And I keep it alive at my restaurant every day. In honor of 6/13, I came up with a little crazy Neapolitan numerology of my own. I added the 6 and 1 to make 7, then added the 3 on the end to make 73. And ever since, I’ve made 73 STG, AVPN-certified margherita pizzas every night. Not one more or one less. Like I said, I love traditions.