A Sacramento chef’s road to the perfect pizza

As a chef who’s been interviewed many times, a common question is always, “What is your favorite food?” To which I always reply, “Favorite food at age 4? Pizza. Favorite food at age ‘blank' (now a staggering 39)? Pizza!”

Uttered words have never been more true. I love pizza. I remember the sleepover birthday parties as a kid, consistently catered by the ubiquitous Round Table Pizza—pepperoni, of course. I still don't understand those kids that only go for plain cheese; vegetarians in the making, I suppose.

And there were Dad's softball games—which for the most part were dull, monotonous—but there was a glorious reward for tolerating a bunch of middle-aged men poorly performing athletics in an effort to justify their heavy consumption of tasteless light beer: There would be pizza.

And not just pizza. I was transported to the magical and wondrous palace where my favorite edible was created: the pizza parlor.

The sights, the smells, those textured red-plastic cups filled from enormous, overflowing pitchers of Coca-Cola—it was like we'd just slain a dragon, or defended the castle walls from invading marauders.

But the most special place of all was Sidewalk Pizza. For those poor souls who never had the chance to experience this long-lost institution, it once inhabited what is now Midtown Taqueria (in East Sacramento, which still boggles). Was it the pizza that stood out? Or was it the outdoor patio, which for a suburban 10-year-old felt like visiting an old-world country? Surely it was partly the stand-up Centipede game with the roller-ball control. And definitely it was the two owners, who seemed as if they were pulled straight out of Super Mario Bros.

Not only were these guys responsible for crafting the masterpiece that would be our meal through a magical performance of dough acrobatics (this was the first time I saw pizza tossing), they also were nice enough to throw me a quarter or two after I'd bled Dad's coffers dry.

But I digress. This was a time long ago, the pizza of my childhood. A boy needs to grow up to become a man, and so does his pizza.

Things have changed today. The chains aren't quite what they used to be. Wolfgang Puck had his way with the American pizza—for better, for worse. Peyton Manning is doing pizza commercials. But most notable has been the heavy influx of Italian imports.

The Neapolitan pizza can be found all over town. Characterized by its black, blistery crust, light sauces and scant toppings, the Neapolitan is a tribute to the Associazione Vera Pizza Napoletana's very strict rules on pizza making.

Some chefs follow the rules more than others. Others take the structured technique and make it their own, adding subtle twists with unconventional flavors and toppings.

I prefer the latter. In my not-too-long-ago days of pizza-peddling, I classified my particular brand of pie as a cross between Neapolitan and Round Table. (Just having those two styles in the same sentence may have some pizzaiolos shaking their pins, but the Cal-Italian love child of them is a perfect juxtaposition of pizza principles.)

A crisp crust, one that remains chewy yet just a tiny bit bready, coated with a thin, suede-like sauce that is equal parts tangy and robust, with a suggestion of sweetness. A cozy blanket of melted whole-milk mozzarella covering the landscape, allowing small rivers and pools of sauce to bubble up. All this scattered with slices of spiced-pork goodness that crisp and slightly curl at the edges, trapping the orange-hued nectar that only a fool would sop up with a napkin.

This is my perfect pizza.