An Unfortunate Anecdote
Picture Venice, Italy, early spring. It was a pleasant enough day when the sun was shining and the thoughts of impending doom created by the water vents in the floor wasn't front of mind. You walk out of a 4-hour museum tour starving. Walking through the crowded alleyways, you spot a nondescript first floor pizza shop. Someone's nonna is churning out pizza dough by the dozen while fresh pies are laid out on display for hungry patrons walking by. I am one of those patrons. As I slow down to take in the selection of not-so delicately laid toppings, my eyes spot the one I haven't seen since I'd left American soil. Pineapple. Glorious, shining, juicy, yellow pineapple on top of true Italian pizza. I had learned that this was as good as illegal in Italy, so I was very thrown back when I saw the pineapple slices sitting in their rightful place next to the anchovy, Margherita, and mushroom slices. Excited as I was, I practically shouted a "Buonasera" to the pizza nonna and immediately pointed a finger over the glass at the pineapple slice closest to me. "Uno, per favore," I said. Not finding the word in Italian for pineapple in my Duolingo filled brain, I opted for the English translation. "Pineapple, please," I said after pointing to it to clarify my choice. "Una patata, si," pizza nonna answered. In my head I was too excited to comprehend another language so I said "si, grazie." I wait at the register while my father pays for our slices, staring impatiently at the oven behind pizza nonna as if telepathically commanding it to hurry up warming my slice. Anticipation is at an all time high as pizza nonna finally places the slice in my hand. With a quick "grazie!" I rush out of the shop to eat my perfect little pineapple slice on the walk back to the Airbnb. Something is off, I realize, as I tear a piece of pizza off. The golden bits of pineapple sitting atop my pizza isn't pineapple at all. Sure, it's yellow and beautifully shining like the beloved fruit, but it's not sweet and somehow tastes of starch. Potatoes. As it dawns on me how stupid I'd been and am, standing in the middle of the street elated for my pineapple pizza, I remember where I am. The land of pizza. And of course no real pizza nonna would create such an abominable slice in the hopes of attracting American tourists to her establishment. Embarrassment sweeps through me like like the Venetian gondolas under a nearby bridge as I contemplate what to do next. For what it's worth, golden nuggets of potato is a tasty topping option, but I stand my ground as I declare, "Pineapple DOES belong on pizza!" to the people on the street near me, although I am really shouting at the pizza gods above for denying me my craving for very American pizza in the pizza country itself. I begrudgingly ate the rest of the (delicious) slice of potato pizza and went on my way, all the while questioning why American pie makers don't offer potato pizza...