Roman Pizza Is Ever Changing, But Always Itself
I was ten years old when I tasted pizza for the first time. My family had moved to Rome in the middle of the school year, and my brother and I were dropped into a fancy private school improbably run by Irish nuns near Piazza di Spagna in the city’s Centro Storico (historic center). It was an abrupt introduction to Italian bourgeois culture, including the Italian pizza ritual. Every morning as we filed into class, we passed the school custodian selling neatly wrapped packets of pizza rossa and pizza bianca. In the classroom, we slid our paper-packaged snack in between the radiator columns to keep them warm until our midmorning break. I’m not sure if anything has ever tasted as delicious since.
Pizza bianca was a little basic, just straight dough...