Pie in the Sky

My boyfriend Tim is a pizzaterian. If he had to eat pizza three or four times a week for the rest of his life, he'd have no complaints. Needless to say, I eat a lot of pizza. And make a lot of them, too. As a self-taught pizza chef, I have to say I'm pretty proud of the light, airy thin-crusted za that I'm able bust out with my own two hands.

Still, my pies can use some fine-tuning, and one of my main failures is in preparing the dough. Rather than tossing it into a perfectly round, flat disc, my technique involves stretching out the dough with two fists until it resembles a crude circle. If you were being nice, you could call it "rustic," but it's really just the result of not knowing what I'm doing. I knew that couldn't call myself a pizza-making master until I perfected the quintessential skill of a pizzaiolo - hand-tossing pizza dough.

I arrived at Tony's at 3:30 p.m. on a drizzly Friday. A sweet, warm aroma of tomato sauce and freshly baked dough enveloped me. The hostess showed me to the adjacent dining room, where I'd find Tony. At the back of this room a certified Neapolitan Cirigliano wood fire oven blazed at 900 degrees - this is where the magic happens.

Tony and another pompadoured pizzaiolo were finishing up a large order for the last of the lunch crowd. Tony was wearing a red kerchief tied around his neck that reminded me of a Pamplona bull runner, and both were clad in the restaurant uniform - a t-shirt with "Respect the Craft" emblazoned on the back. I sat down at a nearby table and stared as they worked in the relatively small space together.

They had a steady, but unhurried rhythm about their movements, which was a strange juxtaposition to the feverish, clubby dance music that was quietly playing in the background. Tony assembled the pizzas, and the other chef slid each uncooked pie into the oven with a long-handled metal pizza peel that looked like an over-sized fly swatter. In no time, beautiful, steaming Neapolitan pizzas were removed from the oven and taken away to awaiting customers.

When the last order was sent out, Tony motioned for me to join him behind the counter and pulled out a palette of soft mounds of white dough that resembled large breast implants. The dough had been resting in the fridge for about 30 hours. Cold-risen dough is better to toss because it's easier to handle and properly resting the dough makes for a lighter, airier texture with better flavor. As Tony said, it lets the "yeast do its work."

Tony picked up a dough ball and threw it into a drawer full of flour to coat it on both sides. He then placed it down onto the counter and pushed on it with his fingers, using a circular rubbing motion. In no time, he had a 10-inch disc on the counter. The dough, he explained, should be big enough so that when draped over your two fists, it falls over each wrist. Next, he demonstrated the crucial movements that make pizza tossing possible.

After our lesson, I asked Tony if he sold pizza by the slice. Being around all those pies was making me hungry. About five minutes later, he placed a whole margherita pizza in front of me, which he said is best to eat within a minute of it hitting the table. That wouldn't be too difficult. The pizza was perfectly cooked: its crust was charred in spots and crispy all around, the sauce was slightly sweet and bright, the cheese was generous but not overwhelming, and the whole, fresh basil leaves were wilted but still had bite. On top of that was a splash of flavorful extra virgin olive oil and a sprinkle of Neapolitan sea salt. In a word, it was heavenly!

I also got to try a piece of his Sicilian deep dish pizza, as the restaurant staff was eating a family meal before the dinner crowd arrived, and that too was delicious. As we sat and ate, I listened in on the workers' conversations, and it was apparent I was surrounded by a group of people who loved pizza and probably ate a good deal of it every week. I had found Tim's people! I was able to eat a few slices and wrapped the rest up to go (not really recommended, but hey, I wasn't going to waste it!). As I rode my bike home, I was already planning my next trip out to North Beach with Tim.