After my semester in Naples, I developed a bit of a reputation for being insufferable. If it isn’t blistered in a wood-fired oven or doesn’t have the structural integrity of a true Neapolitan slice, I usually won’t look at it.
Most American pizza is just a soggy, over-cheesy insult to the craft, but every so often, I stumble into a Michigan haunt that actually understands the soul of the dough.
You know the type: the lights buzz softly, the booths have a few character-building nicks, and the ovens have decades of stories baked into their very bricks…