An pizza experiment that works (for once)
Mortadella and pistachio pizza
Pizza has a problem. It’s the English language of flatbreads: no matter where you go, you’ll find it waiting for you. It might have a different accent, but there’s a surprising level of fluency nonetheless. Some of the best pizza I’ve eaten was in unforeseen places. I’ve swooned over flavorful crust in Bosnia and been delighted by wood-fired pies in Bangalore.[1] Something is comforting, in an increasingly xenophobic and nativist age, about a dish that so effortlessly transcends borders.
But familiarity breeds contempt. Or, perhaps more accurately, in this case, the ubiquitous quickly grows stale. Certain combinations of toppings turn up with numbing regularity. (I can’t remember when I last ordered a pizza Margherita, because, although it’s a delicious classic, I’ve had it too many times to care). Eventually, everyone has one or two go-to choices that fill the stomach but no longer feed the soul.
Pizzaioli and pizzaiole try to counter this slide into boredom. They experiment with fresh combinations or novel toppings. Some become new favorites (BBQ chicken, bitter greens, or a fried egg), while others hover on the edge of acceptance (I think the jury is still out on potatoes, honey, and asparagus). But far too many are failures. I’m looking at you, eggplant, beetroot, and apple. And then there’s the foul bromeliad that has disgraced far too many a pie. [2]
Which is to say that it’s worthy of celebration when one comes across an unfamiliar pizza that restores one’s faith and love for the dish. That’s what happened to me one afternoon in Zadar when I encountered the mortadella and pistachio pizza.
Toppings aside, this was also a pizza with a superlative crust: more chewy than bready, packed with flavor on its own, and just glancingly charred in the oven. I dream of achieving a result like this on my own. Zadar Pizza captured my heart.
It’s a white pie made with Parmesan crema, mozzarella, burrata, and shaved grana padano. The toppings were slices of mortadella and pistachios in three ways: as part of the mortadella, in a pesto, and roasted, then chopped and sprinkled on top. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I may have seen (but never tried) mortadella on pizza before, but pistachios were a revelation. My heart now belonged to Zadar mortadella-pistaschio pizza.
A few days later, in Split, I ran into my new love’s brother.
I can only say to the Split Pizza: I love you, but I’m just not in love with you. It’s not you, it’s me. All right, it is actually you, but it’s not your fault. I’m sure the right guy for you is out there. But I am going to need my keys back…
His recipe was more straightforward, substituting stracciatella for burrata and missing the pesto found in the Zadar version. It was still delicious, although far less revelatory. Perhaps the loss of novelty undermined my experience; I suspect the more pedestrian recipe was more to blame. Siblings might resemble each other superficially, yet one of them often gets more of the family’s best traits than the other.
Finally, In Sarajevo, I met the black sheep of this pizza family. Although a pesto was involved, there was no fresh cheese, and turkey ham replaced the mortadella. To be fair, the menu promised only Pistazzica (a pistachio pizza) with no mention of the Italian cured meat, yet it was clear what the chef hoped to emulate here. Pork isn’t popular in Bosnia for obvious reasons, and that’s generally not an issue. The smoked and cured meats (nearly always beef) you encounter instead are delicious and often make excellent substitutes. However, this carnivorous syncretism can fail, as it did in this instance. Turkey ham is to mortadella as carob is to chocolate: a decent substitute if you squint your eyes and put nothing in your mouth, but a sad mockery otherwise.
As a result, there’s no picture—and for once, this was a choice rather than a forgetful mistake.
Sarajevo Pizza, I really need to get going because I’ve got this super important early meeting at work. The less said about our tryst, the better. I think we both know it was a mistake and…oh god, why do I feel so dirty? Um, maybe I could grab a quick shower before I take off?
Addendum: Post-trip research revealed that this pizza is neither new nor native to the Balkans. Recipes started appearing online five or six years ago, so it seems I’ve come late to the party. But this pizza was new to me, so it still feels like a wondrous discovery. It is near the top of my list of dishes to recreate once I’m home, and has left me looking askance at other pizzas ever since. I feel like I’m cheating on my old stand-bys (sausage, ham, and mushroom must be feeling hurt), yet I can’t help myself. I’m besotted with this new love, and they’ll just have to wait until my ardor cools and I come home to them, full of apologies and placating gifts.
1 Seriously, a pizza place on Bangalore’s Church Street applies the Indian genius for grilled bread to pizza with remarkable results. I ate lunch there three times during a week-long stay—this meant giving up several opportunities to eat Indian cuisine (with which I have a love affair bordering on the obsessive), as clear an indication of quality as I can imagine. ↺ BACK
2 Pineapple has no place on pizza (at least not in a universe subject to natural law). The “Hawaiian” pizza should never have existed in the first place, and the shocking hubris of its creators should disgust us today. Their experiment has failed, and it’s time to let this Frankenstein’s monster finally die. ↺ BACK