Posts Tagged ‘pizza goon’

“Et Tu, Bruno?”

Is it Bruno di Fabio, the fun-loving friend and happy-go-lucky pizza guy? Or Bruno di Hyde, selling his soul for a win?

We arrived in Salsomaggiore after a grueling 7-hour ride from the Almalfi Coast, thanks to Bruno’s penchant for driving at the speed of sound. This time I was grateful because the Alfa Romeo we were promised in Rome was totalled. The rental company gave us a smaller Fiat that barely fit us and our bags. The back-seaters (myself and Mike) were stuck like caterpillers in a coccoon.

From San Francisco: Audry, Nancy and Tony Gemignani with Bruno and Leo from Chicago.

I can truly say that Bruno di Fabio is one of my few best friends. Having him as a friend entitles this bearer to countless hours of fun, ruthless and even criminal banter. He is interested in everything under the sun, a curiosity that would make mere mortal scientists’ heads spin. He can also be sensitive and honest at the most inappropriate moments, saying stuff like, “You know John, that’s why I like you, you’ve got the sharpest wit I’ve ever encountered.” (Then the zing.) “Now if only your pizzas didn’t taste like s—- .”

Bruno enters your life like a bullfighter strutting into the ring, wearing only a thong. You must pay attention to him. He demands it. With just a cock of his head and inquisitive eyes, he can either bore a drill-hole into your face or gently taunt you with his smooth charisma.

Two World Champions, Tony Gemignani and Bruno di Fabio; The World Pizza Champions en masse.

After countless years of coming to Salsomaggiore, Italy, I was about to have a front row seat in a play called “The Bruno di Fabio Tsunami” (I would have used “Dog Day Afternoon” but it was too whimpy.)

For his pizza’s ingredients, Bruno dragged us around Sorrento looking for spicy salami and Burrata cheese (a very rich ricotta-like cheese from Puglia). He didn’t quit whining until he purchased some bright green Cerignola olives that would, as he said, “Put the lid on the coffin of all my competitors, including you, John.” Tony Gemignani, owner of Tony’s Napaletana in San Francisco, made a pizza with Campari and reduced blood oranges that was truly brilliant.

Both these guys are undoubtably the best pizza makers in the country. They live for pizza, make it every day, and know all the different kinds of dough, processes and ovens that define good from bad. You may find alot of hot-shot celebrity bakers and chefs with million dollar P.R. firms making the “Top 25 pizzerias” lists of best pizzas, but it’s true pizza men like Tony and Bruno who really live the life.

Tony and Bruno’s Pizza Teglia entrants. Both were calm cool and collected throughout the competition.

(Let’s digress.) It all started in my hotel room at Hotel Valentini. I had just finished cleaning and sanitizing the antique desk in my room as Bruno dumped a pile of All Trumps high-gluten flour into a bowl and added his biga that we had made in Positano.

“So Bruno, I hear they made a new category this year,” said Tony, dressed all in black, his tattoos showing. He lay back on the bed. The smile on his face told me there would soon be laughter followed by yelling.

“Really?” Bruno said as he kneaded the flour into the biga and added more yeast, malt and water.

“Yeah. It’s called ‘last place’ and they did it just for you, chump.” Tony laughed, which cut through the tense room like wildfire.

“Funny Tony,” said Bruno. “Hey, who won last year?”

He and Tony went on and on until I jumped into the fray.

“You hot shots got nothin’ on my pie,” I said.

“That’s because there is nothin’ to your pie except bad taste.” Bruno laughed with a nasal gaffaw. “Face it, John, you’re my friend and I told you before, you’d be much better off if you just quit this pizza dream while you’re ahead. The humiliation for a guy your age may take it’s toll…heart attack, stroke or even leperosy.”

On into the night it went. Tomorrow we would see which pizza truly ruled. That old tense anticipation reverberated throughout Salsomaggiore. Who would win? Who would lose?

Spanish Chorizo and Manchego Pizza

As the snow falls again in my backyard, I taste small slices from two kinds of Spanish chorizo and look out the window at those damned starlings eating all the good bird food. I hate those nasty birds. They are the bullies of the bird world. I then realize that I’ve hated chorizo most of my adult life, until just nine months ago.

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Before leaving to get some Black Cat bottlerockets to scare those damned greasy birds away, I concentrate on the flavors. The longer chorizo is mellower than the… er…shorter-looking one. Both of these pork sausages are packed with big chunks of delicious pork fat and roughly cut meat. The Spanish paprika imparts a smoky, yet not overpowering spice to it, not hot at all.

The chorizo of my past was way too spicy and gave me heartburn. Little did I know that I was probably eating low-end American- or Mexican- made sausages passing themselves off as authentic chorizo.This chorizo, however, is so fully flavored with garlic, smoke and paprika that I am softening my stance and considering giving those gutter birds a reprieve.

I intend to pair this chorizo with aged Spanish Manchego made from sheeps’ milk from the La Mancia region. It is slightly salty and and has an almost cheddar-asiago taste like a toned-down, hard feta. It will stand up well to the chorizo, which will melt on the pizza, i.e. large globs of beautiful fat and paprika will run along the melted Manchego like gorgeous red lakes. Adding some sweet sauteed yellow onion, roasted red peppers and fresh cilantro would round this bodacious pie up nicely.

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I have Lucy to thank for my new-found love of chorizo. Lucy had just come back from a long stay in Spain and she wanted to get back on her feet. I offered her a job because she had been an awesome employee at Avalanche in the past. During her first week back, she handed me a baggy with what looked like 3-inch dog poop in it.

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“What’s this?” I asked.

“Illegal Spanish chorizo,” she said, looking around for government spies. (I am not using her real name, since it was unlawful for her to smuggle the chorizo into the country.)

I tried a little piece and gave the three guys working that morning a slice also. The red, dry-aged sausage was so flavorful and not at all spicy, like I had envisioned. I cut another slice, and another, another and another until it was gone. The smokiness staying with me in the back of my throat. It ranked with the best sausage I’ve ever eaten.

Now I’ve found a place in Columbus that sells both types of real Spanish chorizo: the long rope, which is a little mellower, and the small sausage version (okay yes, the one that looks like dog poop!) This is not the all-too-spicy Mexican chorizo that flavors soups and stews, but the mellow, smoky, chorizo with big chunks of fat that act as flavor nuggets to your soul.

“With this, I will make the best pizza ever!” I exclaimed like Napolean, while standing at the check-out counter (as the teller secretly put her finger on the silent alarm button).Well, here it is, a great pizza. Tell me how you like it.


1 recipe Easy Dough (freeze the second dough ball if you are not making 2 pizza)

1 small yellow onion, sliced in half then across the grain

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 small can Hunt’s tomato sauce

2 pinches oregano

1 teaspoon sugar

3/4 cup shredded imported Manchego cheese (don’t use a Microplane- you’ll be sorry)

1 cup sliced chorizo (for the good Spanish stuff, leave me a comment and I’ll let you know where to find it.) Cut the chorizo on the bias, (not in coins but on the diagonal, as shown below)

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1 small roasted red pepper (See recipe in Toro, Sweet Bell Pepper Pizza. Take the whole pepper, after steaming and de-seeding, and set on a cutting board for topping prep)

A couple of sprigs of fresh cilantro

Preheat an upturned heavy cookie sheet on the middle deck in a 450 degree oven.

Place the onion in a small saute pan with the olive oil, and saute on medium-high for 4 minutes until just softened.

To make the sauce, combine the tomato sauce, oregano and sugar  in a small bowl. Taste and add more sugar if desired.

Bang the dough out into a 10- to 11-inch round as indicated in the Easy Dough Recipe. Place on parchment paper.

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Put  3 to 4 tablespoons of the sauce on the dough.

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Spread the sauteed onions, then the grated Manchego cheese on the sauce.

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Place the chorizo atop the cheese.

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Julienne the roasted red peppers and place on the chorizo.

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Slide the pizza, still on the parchment paper, onto the hot upturned cookie sheet in the oven. Bake for 10 to 13 minutes or until the crust is golden brown and crisp when you run a spatula under the pizza. Top with the sprigs of cilantro and serve.

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Eat it like the ravenous dog that you are, and don’t worry about those damned starlings or the snow.