Thin Pizza is for Apostates

Lunch was okay today, and by “okay,” I mean the closest thing to heaven I expect to experience in this life.

I have been making thin pizza after thin pizza, wondering why the pies didn’t make my eyes roll back in my head the way my Sicilians do. I finally realized this: thin pizza is inherently not as good as Sicilian. It’s not possible to make a thin pizza that compares to my Sicilian, so I have been wasting my time chasing a culinary unicorn. I’m wondering if I should ever make thin pizza again.

Today I decided to make a full-size Sicilian, meaning a quarter sheet. The measurements are about 9″ by 13″. It may not sound like a big pan, but a Sicilian made in it will feed three reasonable people or me and one of my friends.

I haven’t messed with my Sicilian recipe much, because it was incredible the first time I made it back in 2009. I have made little changes, but it’s nearly the same pie it was then. Today I decided to get brave and innovate.

I have been experimenting with twice-melted cheese. When you reheat pizza, the texture of the cheese is usually better than it was the first time around. With that in mind, I wondered why I shouldn’t melt my cheese, cool it, put it on the pizza, and bake it a second time.

I used twice-melted cheese today. I made a mixture of Boar’s Head mozzarella, Publix sliced provolone, and Cracker Barrel extra-sharp white cheddar. I used a quarter sheet as a mold and shaped a piece of nonstick foil around the bottom of it. This gave me a foil tray slightly larger than the bottom of a quarter sheet. I mixed my cheeses, put them in it, and heated them until they bubbled. With great care, I was able to get the foil out of the oven and chill the cheese without any accidents. At room temperature, it formed a sort of cheese placemat.

I used slightly more dough than I usually do, and I chose to parbake it. Ordinarily, I don’t do this. I put my stretched dough in a very oily pan and baked it at 500° for 9 minutes. I was surprised how long it took to start to look cooked.

I had 6 precious cans of Stanislaus Saporito sauce. I had been reluctant to use them, because the nearest source is 90 minutes away. I had been working with Cento tomatoes and Glen Muir paste to come up with an acceptable, readily available substitute, but today, I had to have Stanislaus.

I thought about the economics. I hesitated to use Stanislaus because the cans contain around a gallon, and the cost about $7 each. When I use Cento and Muir Glen, I spend over $5, and the amount of sauce I get is a small fraction of what a can of Stanislaus produces. I realized I was tormenting myself over nothing. Stanislaus is actually cheaper, even if you throw a lot out.

I broke the can into four nearly equal parts, took a little out for today’s pie, and froze the rest in bags. I should have good-quality sauce for a month or two, and even if it deteriorates, it will still be a lot better than Cento and Muir Glen.

I put 8 ounces of sauce on the parbaked crust, which is a third more than usual. I applied my sheet of cheese. I had a little bulk Italian sausage, so I put that on the pie, too.

When I baked the pie, it took forever to cook. I had added dough, I had interrupted the baking by parbaking, and I believe the twice-melted cheese took longer to brown than cold cheese. When I put it on the pie, it was already covered in fat, and fat slows browning.

I was hoping the cheese would crawl over the edges of the crust and burn against the pan, and that did happen, but not to the degree I had hoped.

After I pulled the pie out and cooled it a little, it popped right out of the pan. The crust was nicely browned. The cheese was limp, cooperative, and gooey. The sauce was a home run, plain and simple. I felt stupid for using store ingredients.

The crust could have been crunchier and lighter. The top could have been a little more brown. There could have been more browned cheese around the rim. The pizza was hard to handle, so it got a little beaten up. In spite of all that, this pizza was exquisite.

I don’t know if I’ll keep fooling with cheese sheets. I don’t think they improve things. Not sure yet. I will try to let the next crust blow up more so it will be airier; I was in a hurry today. I will increase the heat to get better crunch. Of course, I will use more sausage. Other than that, there is not much to say. I can’t get a pizza like this anywhere except in my kitchen. When I die, America’s best street-style Sicilian (to my knowledge) will die with me.

I’ve been watching pizzaiolos on Youtube, and some of them make Sicilian. Some call it “grandma pizza,” which makes it sound gross and inferior. I don’t think much of the way they make it. They make very thin crusts. What’s the point? If you like thin crusts, make a thin round pizza right on the stone. The joy of pan pizza is in the crust. It should be thick enough to give you the sense that you’re eating homemade bread.

I think my pizza is better than theirs. I’ve had Sicilian in Miami and New York, made by actual Italians. I’ve had excellent Sicilian in Hollywood, Florida, at a place called Vannucchi Brothers. I know what good Sicilian is. When I watch someone make a Sicilian on Youtube, I have a pretty good idea what the taste and texture will be like. I think they do it wrong.

Urban mythology says all pizza made in New York is perfect. That’s completely untrue. There are bad pizzerias in New York, and even the good pizzerias generally aren’t making astounding pies. New York pizzaiolos are stuck with ancient traditions that may or may not work, and which may be rooted more in economy or laziness than a desire to make excellent food. It shouldn’t shock anyone when I say I can make better pizza.

In Pennsylvania, there is an elderly lady named Norma Knepp. She took over a pizza concession at a farmer’s market a few years back. She had never made pizza before. She got some advice and worked up a recipe, and she ended up winning a big competition in New York City. If New York Italians knew everything, that would never have happened. They are beatable.

Along with the pizza, I had a Coke. I chilled the can in the freezer along with a very heavy glass. When I poured the Coke into the glass, ice crystals floated to the top. That’s how you serve a Coke. I want a special cooling device made with a Peltier cooler to keep my glass of Coke at freezing temperatures while I eat.

I still have enough pizza for a day or two of fine eating. I may fry the slices in a pan before or after heating them in the toaster oven, to make the crust crunchier.

I have pizza figured out. You don’t make thin pizza unless you have a special craving or a finicky guest. You make Sicilian, like a man. You use real tomatoes from a serious company. Thin pizza and store tomatoes are foods of a lower order.

I don’t think my thin pizza can get much better, because no matter what I do, it will always be thin pizza. The pizza of the undiscerning.