29 Oct 2018
Eight euros and one floor closed, a dubious beginning.
I quickly adjust to closures due to new installations or some bureaucracy above my Neapolitan literacy. It furthers my belief I am allowed to peek behind the curtain. And I do. Shamelessly.
I fall entranced to a ghostly Pompeii exhibit. Black skulls and mirrors. And Gravestones. I am brought to wonder about the effect of sun and rain and ash and sea on Naples, on Pompeii, on the Amalfi coast. Now I’m hungry.
Outside Sorbillo’s Pizzeria I stand for a cool and windy half hour, the only single in line.
Everyone else is two if not four or six bumping me over and over. I’m a*pizzaiola for fucks sake!
(*Italian for female pizza maker.)
Sat at a two-top next to the French mother I stood on line with, and her young son who stares at me incessantly,when he’s not in the bathroom, I order un piccolo beer and pizza Esterina. Topped with provolo di agerola, ricotta, shredded zucchini, black pepper, salami and basil, it is perfectly crispy, greasy and delicious. I send the requisite photo to my very Neapolitan-purist pizza instructor, his WHY? reverberates from cell tower to cell tower.
It’s my job to eat pizza.
Only afterwards I realize there is another Sorbillo’s thirty feet away, the ONE for tourists, where without dignity they call your name from a waiting list. No way Jose. No. Way.