The Perfect Pizza - A Tribute to Rocco Messina

This has been a pretty rough week. I guess in part because it came after a busy and fun-filled four day weekend, but also in part because of finals and final papers, and also because it seems like I have this neon sign on my forehead saying, “Trouble: Land Here.” (Read my immediate previous post for some of that fun.) So last night, a friend suggested that I really needed a long hot bath in a deep bathtub, with some bath salts – said I would sleep like a baby. I countered with the need for some hot cocoa with Bailey’s, which was met with enthusiastic agreement that it, too, would ease my sorrows. Then I said if I was feeling really reckless, I would also splurge on a pizza. We discussed the relative merits of different toppings, and both agreed that Domino’s and Papa Johns are good, Pizza Hut not so much. (Hmm. I wonder how we avoided a debate on crust?) But all the talk about pizza, got me thinking about real pizza. Pizza like we used to get when I was a kid in good ol’ Vallejo, CA, at Rocco’s.

Now, first of all, that is not pronounced “Rocko.” It’s hard to explain it phonetically, but you have to roll the “R”, the first “o” is long, there is a brief pause/hiccup between the two “c’s”, and the second “o” is also long. Emphasis on the first syllable. Rocco. Rocco Messina.

For the majority of my childhood I couldn’t even eat pizza. I had a bad milk allergy, and the cheese would have had me aching for days, my nights filled with nightmares. But eventually I grew out of the allergy (though sometimes I still get a little bit sick if I have too much dairy) and was able to see what all the fuss was about. And, OH MY! Rocco’s pizza was killer. Rocco, you see, was from the Old Country. He must have been around my parents’ ages, since his daughter was a year behind me in school. It was one of those success stories, where he came over with very little to his name, built his business on blood, sweat and tears, wisely invested every spare penny, and by the time he sold the pizza place (and of course, it never ever tasted as good again) he was quite a wealthy man. His pizzas were perfect. Crust – thick and chewy. Sauce – perfectly spiced, not too much and not too little. Toppings – highest quality, and he never skimped on anything. Cheese – oh, the ooey gooey cheese that had been the bane of my younger years, golden and… well… cheesy. Very likely it would have been a heart attack in a box, but for the garlic. That’s why we Italians can eat all that meat and cheese and still live into our 90s, because we counter it with enough garlic to clear the arteries right back up.

I don’t even know offhand of a pizza place around here that compares, or if they even exist anymore, at least not in cities that don’t have a Little Italy neighborhood. But you can bet your bottom dollar that the next place I settle in, I will look until I find it. Because nothing makes a bad week better, than a hot bath, cocoa with Bailey’s, and a really good pizza.