From Hearth to Heritage

Long before anyone uttered the word “pizza,” humans were making flatbreads. In the Fertile Crescent around 10,000 BCE, ancient bakers pressed grain into discs and baked them on heated stones. Egyptian pharaohs were buried with flatbreads for the afterlife. Persian soldiers under Darius the Great baked cheese and dates onto their shields during campaigns—portable, practical, delicious.

The Greeks gave us “plakous”—flatcakes topped with oil, herbs, and garlic in the 5th century BCE. The Romans refined this into “panis focacius,” hearth-baked bread that remains focaccia's ancestor today. When Vesuvius erupted in 79 CE, it preserved Pompeii's bakeries—and the carbonized bread that proves these traditions were already sophisticated.

These were not “pizzas” in the modern sense. The defining ingredient—tomato—wouldn't arrive for 1,500 more years. But the concept was ancient: take grain, flatten it, add toppings, apply fire. Pizza's DNA is human DNA.

In 997 CE, in the southern Italian town of Gaeta, a scribe recorded a tenant's obligation: deliver “duodecim pizze”—twelve pizzas—to the local bishop annually. This humble note is pizza's birth certificate. The word existed. The food existed. Modern pizza was still centuries away.

The etymology remains debated. Byzantine Greek “pitta” (pie)? Latin “pinsere” (to pound)? Germanic “bizzo” (morsel)? All theories have merit. What matters is that by the 10th century, something called “pizza” was valuable enough to use as payment.

Then came the tomato. Spanish conquistadors brought it from Mexico in 1522. For two centuries, European elites considered it poisonous—a deadly nightshade relative. They grew tomatoes as ornamentals, too frightened to eat them. This fear would prove to be pizza's unlikely blessing.

By the 18th century, Naples was one of Europe's largest cities—and among its poorest. The “lazzaroni,” the city's laboring masses, lived in cramped quarters without kitchens. They needed food that was cheap, fast, and filling. They needed pizza.

Street vendors called “pizzaioli” sold flatbreads from open stalls and wheeled carts. The poor, it turned out, were the only ones willing to eat those strange red fruits from Mexico. Tomatoes, rejected by the aristocracy, became pizza's defining ingredient precisely because the hungry couldn't afford to be picky.

The earliest pizzerias emerged—possibly Antica Pizzeria Port'Alba in the 1730s, though records are unclear. What's certain is that by 1807, Naples had 54 documented pizzerias. Pizza was no longer just street food; it was an industry.

The Pizza Marinara—tomato, garlic, oregano, olive oil—was named for the fishermen (marinai) who ate it. No cheese, no frills, just the essential flavors that the poor could afford.

June 1889. Queen Margherita of Savoy visits Naples. According to the most famous story in pizza history, the royal household summoned Raffaele Esposito, pizzaiolo at “Pietro... e basta così” (now Pizzeria Brandi), to prepare pizza for the queen.

Esposito presented three pizzas. One—topped with tomato, mozzarella, and fresh basil—represented the colors of the newly unified Italian flag. The queen allegedly adored it. The pizza was named “Margherita” in her honor. A letter of appreciation was sent. Pizza transcended its working-class origins.

The story may be legend. Historians note that tomato/mozzarella/basil pizzas likely existed before 1889. The letter's authenticity is questioned. But the story's power is real—it elevated pizza from street food to national symbol, from peasant sustenance to something worthy of queens.

Between 1880 and 1920, four million Italians emigrated to America. They carried their recipes in memory, their techniques in their hands. Pizza came to New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago—anywhere Italians gathered.

In 1905, Gennaro Lombardi obtained the first American pizzeria license, opening at 53½ Spring Street in Manhattan's Little Italy. He adapted: coal ovens instead of wood (hotter, different char); cow's milk mozzarella instead of buffalo (different stretch); larger pies sold by the slice (different economics).

These weren't compromises—they were evolution. American pizza was being born, and Lombardi's was its cradle. The pizzaioli he trained—Antonio “Totonno” Pero, Patsy Lancieri, and others—would carry the tradition to Brooklyn, Harlem, and beyond.

World War II changed everything. American soldiers stationed in Italy discovered pizza—and loved it. When they returned home, they brought their appetites with them. Demand exploded.

The 1950s saw pizzerias multiply across America. No longer confined to Italian neighborhoods, pizza became mainstream suburban fare. Checkered tablecloths, jukebox music, Friday night family dinners—pizza was Americana.

In Chicago, Ike Sewell and Ric Riccardo invented something entirely new: deep-dish pizza at Pizzeria Uno in 1943. A thick, buttery crust, cheese beneath the sauce, a meal unto itself. It had no Neapolitan precedent—it was pure American innovation, proving pizza was now a canvas for experimentation.

In 1958, two brothers in Wichita, Kansas opened a small restaurant with $600 borrowed from their mother. Pizza Hut would grow into the world's largest pizza chain. Two years later, Tom Monaghan bought a small shop in Ypsilanti, Michigan—future Domino's.

The franchise era democratized pizza. Suddenly, pizza was available everywhere: suburbs, small towns, shopping malls. The 30-minute delivery guarantee changed American dining habits. Frozen pizzas put pizza in every grocery store freezer.

But something was also lost. Standardization replaced craftsmanship. Volume replaced tradition. By the 1980s, “pizza” could mean a $30 coal-oven pie in Brooklyn or a $5 chain box delivered anywhere. Pizza had conquered America—but artisans worried its soul was slipping away.

In the shadow of franchising, a counter-movement emerged. Artisanal pizzaioli—obsessed with dough fermentation, ingredient sourcing, and traditional technique—began reclaiming pizza as craft.

Chris Bianco opened Pizzeria Bianco in Phoenix in 1988. He grew his own wheat. Made his own mozzarella. Won a James Beard Award in 2003—the first pizzaiolo to do so. Pizza was suddenly serious cuisine.

Anthony Mangieri at Una Pizza Napoletana made pizza one-by-one, closing when the dough ran out. Franco Pepe in Italy, Gabriele Bonci in Rome—master pizzaioli emerged worldwide, treating pizza with the reverence given to fine wine or haute cuisine.

In 2017, the art of Neapolitan pizza-making was inscribed on UNESCO's Intangible Cultural Heritage list. Pizza was officially recognized as a cultural treasure, the traditional techniques worthy of protection.

From poverty food to cultural heritage in two centuries. From Naples street stalls to UNESCO halls. Pizza's journey is complete—and just beginning.