In the narrow alleyways of Naples’ Quartieri Spagnoli, pizza fritta emerged during World War II as necessity transformed crisis into culinary innovation. When Allied bombing damaged many wood-fired ovens and ingredients became scarce, Neapolitan pizzaioli turned to a different cooking method – deep frying. What began as a wartime adaptation became a cherished street food tradition that persists today.

Pizza fritta starts with the same dough as traditional Neapolitan pizza, but instead of being baked, it’s sealed into a half-moon shape and immersed in boiling oil. The filling traditionally consists of ricotta, small pieces of ciccioli (pork), and black pepper, though modern versions might include provola, salami, or tomato sauce. The frying process creates a golden, crispy exterior while steaming the filling inside, resulting in a perfect contrast of textures.

This style of pizza gained fame through the “friddarielle” – women who sold pizza fritta from street stands, often on credit to hungry workers. The most famous was Fernanda Speranza, known as “Queen of the Fried Pizza,” who fed thousands during Naples’ post-war reconstruction. These vendors would call out “Oggi a otto!” (Pay in eight days!), allowing customers to eat now and pay later – a system of trust that helped sustain communities through hard times.

In modern Naples, pizza fritta exists in two main forms: the traditional filled half-moon and the open-faced montanara, where the dough is fried then topped with tomato sauce and cheese before a quick finish in the oven. Both styles represent Naples’ ability to elevate humble ingredients into celebrated dishes through technique and tradition.

The renaissance of Neapolitan pizza has brought renewed attention to pizza fritta, with high-end restaurants now offering refined versions alongside street vendors maintaining traditional preparations. Yet its essence remains unchanged – a testament to Neapolitan ingenuity and resilience, transformed from wartime necessity into culinary heritage.

I had my first true Pizza Fritta in Naples and it was transcendent. I know that sounds like hyperbole but it was crispy and soft at the same time and the tomato and cheese toppings were both salty and sweet and overall it was what people think of when they say “taste explosion” – I knew I wanted to recreate it at home but kept delaying it in favor of easier pizzas. I knew I wanted to use the roasted tomatoes similar to what I had in Italy but wanted to jazz it up. I decided some baked ricotta would be a nice salty counterpoint to the sweet tomatoes and I was right. This really was an easy thing to make and it was delicious. I ate three before I remembered to leave a couple for my wife.

Marinara Pizza: The Essential Neapolitan Classic

In the bustling port city of Naples, the marinara pizza stands as a testament to simplicity’s enduring appeal. Despite its seafaring name, this pizza contains no fish or seafood. Instead, it earned its moniker from the mariners’ wives who would prepare these simple, cheese-less pizzas for their husbands returning from long fishing voyages in the Bay of Naples. The marinara’s ingredients – tomatoes, garlic, oregano, and olive oil – were shelf-stable, making it the perfect provision for sea journeys.

The marinara represents pizza in its most elemental form. The dough, made only with flour, water, salt, and yeast, is stretched whisper-thin in the center while maintaining a puffy cornicione (rim). The sauce consists of hand-crushed San Marzano tomatoes, their natural sweetness enhanced by sea salt. Fresh garlic, sliced or minced, provides punch, while dried oregano adds an herbaceous note that intensifies during baking. A drizzle of extra virgin olive oil completes the composition.

This minimalist approach demands technical perfection. With no cheese to mask imperfections, each element must be impeccable. The dough must develop complex flavors through long fermentation. The tomatoes must strike the perfect balance between sweet and acidic. The garlic must be sliced thin enough to cook in the pizza’s brief time in the 900°F wood-fired oven.

The marinara holds special status as one of only two pizzas recognized by the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana, alongside the Margherita. It represents not just Neapolitan cuisine but the city’s maritime history and working-class roots. In its absence of expensive ingredients like cheese or cured meats, it reminds us that true culinary greatness often emerges from necessity rather than luxury.

Today, as pizza evolves with elaborate toppings and innovative techniques, the marinara remains unchanged – a benchmark against which a pizzaiolo’s skill can be measured. With nowhere to hide flaws, it demands and rewards mastery of the fundamentals. In an age of excess, its restraint feels revolutionary, proving that four simple ingredients, when handled with care and respect, can create something transcendent.

In Buenos Aires, pizza isn’t just food – it’s a cultural institution that rivals the city’s famed steakhouses. Born from the massive Italian immigration wave of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Argentine pizza evolved into something distinctly its own, reflecting both its Italian roots and the abundance of its new home.

The defining characteristic of Argentine pizza is its cheese – and lots of it. While Neapolitan pizzas use a restrained amount of mozzarella, Argentine pizzerias pile on thick layers of mozzarella, often using locally produced quesillo that creates the signature chewy, stretchy texture locals call “correoso.” The cheese doesn’t just cover the pizza; it blankets it completely, often approaching a half-inch in thickness.

The crust provides another point of departure from Italian tradition. Argentine pizza bases are thicker than Neapolitan style but thinner than Sicilian, with a texture closer to focused bread. This hearty base is necessary to support the generous toppings that characterize the style. The dough is often enriched with fat, creating a more tender crust that still maintains enough structure to handle the weight of its abundant toppings.

Perhaps most distinctive is the “media masa” (half dough) variant, where the usual crust is doubled in thickness. This style, particularly popular in Buenos Aires’ pizzerias, creates something closer to a cheese-topped focaccia than a traditional pizza. It’s often served as a starter or late-night snack, demonstrating how thoroughly pizza has been integrated into Argentine dining culture.

Toppings reflect local tastes and ingredients. The “fugazza,” a direct descendant of Genoese focaccia, comes loaded with sweet onions and sometimes without tomato sauce. The “fugazzeta” adds that distinctive thick layer of cheese to the onion-laden base. Another popular variant is the “fainá,” a chickpea flatbread served atop the pizza slice – a custom that originated in Genoa but has been preserved in Argentina while fading in its homeland.

The pizza is typically eaten at traditional pizzerias where it’s served on metal trays and often consumed standing at high tables. Unlike the individual pies common in Italy and America, Argentine pizzas are generally large and shared, reflecting the communal dining culture of the country. The slices are cut smaller than their American counterparts, encouraging sharing and sampling of multiple varieties.

This adaptation of Italian pizza represents more than just culinary evolution – it’s a metaphor for Argentine culture itself, where European traditions were transformed by local abundance and preferences into something uniquely porteño. In every overflowing slice of mozzarella and generous portion of fainá, you’ll find the story of immigration, adaptation, and the creation of a new culinary tradition that pays homage to its roots while proudly asserting its own identity.

This went over very well – who knew that loading an entire block of cheese onto a pizza would be a hit? The dough was chewy but with crispy edges providing a counter texture. The sauce was tangy and reminiscent of NY pizza. It was one of the pizzas that is likely to enter a more permanent rotation once I go back to my regularly scheduled pizza program.

Detroit-Style Pizza: Motor City’s Square Slice Revolution

In the pantheon of American pizzas, Detroit-style stands apart – a testament to industrial ingenuity and the city’s automotive heritage. Born in the post-war boom of the 1940s, this distinctive square pie first emerged at Buddy’s Rendezvous, where automotive parts trays, originally used to store small machine parts, were repurposed as pizza pans. These blue steel pans, with their high sides and excellent heat conductivity, would become the cornerstone of a new pizza tradition.

What sets Detroit-style pizza apart is its architectural approach to layering. Unlike traditional pizzas, it begins with a thick, high-hydration dough that, when baked, creates a light, airy crumb structure reminiscent of focaccia. The high edges of the industrial pans allow the dough to climb during baking, creating a caramelized crust that pizza enthusiasts call “the crown.” This crust, when properly executed, offers a satisfying crunch that gives way to a chewy interior.

Perhaps most iconoclastic is the layering sequence. Wisconsin brick cheese, a semi-soft cheese with a high butterfat content, is cubed rather than shredded and spread edge to edge. During baking, the cheese melts into every corner of the pan, creating the signature caramelized edges that Detroit pizza is famous for. The sauce, rather than forming the base, is typically applied last in thick, bold stripes across the top – a technique known as “racing stripes” in homage to the city’s automotive culture.

This reversal of the traditional pizza construction isn’t mere novelty. The cheese-first approach allows the fats to protect the dough from becoming soggy, while its direct contact with the hot pan creates a lacy, crispy cheese crust that has become the style’s hallmark. The late application of sauce ensures it remains bright and vibrant, providing a fresh contrast to the rich, caramelized underpinnings.

The style remained a regional specialty for decades, beloved in Michigan but relatively unknown elsewhere. However, in the past decade, Detroit-style pizza has emerged as a national phenomenon. Artisan pizzerias across the country now offer their interpretations, while major chains have introduced Detroit-style options to their menus. This expansion hasn’t diluted its character – if anything, it’s strengthened the appreciation for the technical precision required to achieve those perfectly caramelized edges and airy crust.

Detroit-style pizza embodies its city’s spirit – practical in its origins, innovative in its execution, and unapologetically bold in its presentation. It’s a reminder that great food often emerges from the intersection of necessity, available materials, and the creative spirit of working-class communities. In every pan-formed corner and racing stripe of sauce, you’ll find a slice of Detroit’s industrial heritage, transformed into something uniquely delicious.

I’ve always been a fan of Sicilian pizzas – especially the sweet sauce that usually accompanies it. The issue here is that it’s so hit and miss when it comes to local pizzerias. There was a spot where I used to live called Joe’s pizza that crushed the Silician pie. I used to crave it and sometimes, even after I moved 40 minutes away, I’d swing back and get it just to scratch that itch. I haven’t been able to find a good Sicilian pizza around me so I’ve been tinkering with different combos of dough, sauce, and cheese to try to recreate that memory of the perfect square slice.

Lets start with a little history lesson.

Step into any New York pizzeria, and among the rotating carousel of thin-crust slices, you’ll likely spot a distinctive rectangular pie with a thick, pillowy crust that commands attention. This is Sicilian pizza – a style that has evolved from its Mediterranean origins to become a beloved fixture in the American pizza landscape.

Unlike its round Neapolitan cousin, Sicilian pizza traces its lineage to sfincione, a focaccia-like bread topped with tomatoes, anchovies, and hardy mountain cheese that sustained workers in Palermo’s ancient streets. The word sfincione itself comes from the Latin “spongia,” meaning sponge – an apt description for the light, airy dough that characterizes this style.

When waves of Sicilian immigrants arrived in New York in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, they brought this hearty tradition with them. But like all immigrant foods, it adapted to its new home. American abundance meant more cheese – typically a generous layer of mozzarella rather than the traditional caciocavallo. The anchovies often disappeared, replaced by more familiar toppings. What remained constant was the distinctive thick crust, achieved through a long fermentation process that creates a bread-like base sturdy enough to support a generous layer of toppings while maintaining its characteristic lightness.

In New York, the Sicilian slice underwent another transformation. Pizzerias began baking it in well-oiled square pans, creating a crispy bottom that contrasts beautifully with the fluffy interior. This technique, combined with the generous portions typical of American pizzerias, turned the Sicilian slice into a filling meal that could sustain workers during long shifts – much like its ancestor did in the streets of Palermo.

Today’s New York Sicilian pizza is a study in textural contrasts. The bottom crust develops a golden-brown crackle from its contact with the oil-slicked pan. The interior crumb stays tender and airy, while the top crust becomes a canvas for sauce and cheese, which often caramelizes at the edges during baking. A proper Sicilian slice should have corners worth fighting over, where the cheese has become one with the crust in a feat of delicious alchemy.

While some pizzerias treat their Sicilian pies as an afterthought, the best practitioners approach them with the same reverence as their round pies. The dough requires careful attention – too much handling will deflate the precious air bubbles that give it its characteristic texture. The sauce needs to be thick enough to avoid soggy bread but not so heavy that it weighs down the crust. It’s a delicate balance that, when achieved, creates something greater than the sum of its parts.

This transformation – from Sicilian bread to New York slice – represents the beautiful evolution of immigrant foods in America. It honors its origins while embracing new ingredients and techniques, creating something both familiar and distinctive. The Sicilian slice is more than just pizza; it’s a testament to the way food cultures can adapt and thrive in new environments while maintaining their essential character.

In an era where artisanal pizza-making often focuses on Neapolitan authenticity, the Sicilian slice remains proudly Italian-American, neither fully Italian nor typically American, but something uniquely its own. It’s a reminder that some of our most beloved foods come from this cultural interchange, where old-world traditions meet new-world abundance to create something entirely unique.

I’ve always been a fan of Sicilian pizzas – especially the sweet sauce that usually accompanies it. The issue here is that it’s so hit and miss when it comes to local pizzerias. There was a spot where I used to live called Joe’s pizza that crushed the Silician pie. I used to crave it and sometimes, even after I moved 40 minutes away, I’d swing back and get it just to scratch that itch. I haven’t been able to find a good Sicilian pizza around me so I’ve been tinkering with different combos of dough, sauce, and cheese to try to recreate that memory of the perfect square slice.