How can we have gotten to October (practically) without an in-depth analysis and celebration of The Heston Blumenthal Naples Pizza quest? How can so many amazing meals have been invented and enjoyed over the past few weeks without so much as a mere mention? Lest any time pass between the delicious trout of yesterday evening’s enjoyment and the next installment of foodie goodness on this blog, let us immediately celebrate what a joyful combination apples and trout make. Inspired by The F Word last night, I mischievously present these cooking instructions in the style of The Ram.

Potatoes into chip size pieces, boiled.

Into the oven for 20 minutes at Gas 9: olive oil spray, seasalt chunks, capers.

Chopped finely: 1 preserved lemon, 1 pickled gherkin. Shake together with 1 crushed garlic clove, 3 tbsp super light mayonnaise, the zest of 1 lemon and 2 tsp of lemon juice.

Apple sauce: 3 large apples chopped and boiled in 1/2 pint of cider.

Slit the trout’s skin, rub with salt. Add slices of apple inside the fish and in the slits. Grill for 10 minutes on each side.

Apple Trout wonderment: Done.

After enjoying the trout for a minute, let us then apply our attentions to the wonderment of the pizzas of Napoli before any more months pass.

Thankfully a less aggressive linguistic style will typify my explanation of the pizzas.

Our quest for fine, authentic Italian pizza began with three failed attempts to buy dinner at El Presidente, an unpresuming place on the infinitely long ‘Via Tribunali’ in the old, inner city district of Naples. In his book, ‘In Search of Perfection,’ Blumenthal writes about how the place changed its name after a presidential visit from President Clinton and of the exquisite nature of its wonderful pizzas. He writes of Il Presidente;

When they arrived, the pizzas looked very promising. The cornicione – the unadorned dough around the edge of the pizza – was narrow and attractively charred in places. Given the brief oven time, I wasn’t sure how Ernesto had managed this, but it added an extra flavour dimension to a terrific pizza. The tomatoes had both fresh and cooked notes… I was sure I could also taste some provola in there – that deliciously smoky, almost meaty flavour…

But alas, we were not destined to eat in the restaurant as it was closed during the whole period of August.

We turned our attentions, instead, to a visit to Brandi which exemplifies, perhaps better than anywhere else in Naples, the move that the pizza made from being workman’s fare to a regional delicacy fit for the bourgeoisie. It was during a royal visit to Pizzeria Pietro (Brandi’s former name) that the now iconic Margherita earned its name. On 11th June, 1889, King Umberto I and his wife, Queen Margherita wanted to taste the local, gastronomic speciality. Raffaele Esposito who worked in the Pizzeria Pietro was summoned to the palace to present his wares. He presented the royalty with 3 types of Pizza: one with small fish, one with olive oil and cheese, and one with tomato, mozzarella and basil. According to Heston:

On headed notepaper, the head of the Servizi da Tavola della Real Casa (the Royal Household Culinary Service) declares that the pizzas ‘were found to be very good.’ From that point on, the pizza with tomato, mozzarella and basil became known as the Margherita – the queen of pizzas – patriotically decked out in the green, white and red of the Italian flag.

Considering that the pizza was once as lowly as the Cornish Pasty – a foodstuff for poor people and workmen – the Pizza (especially when enjoyed in the brusquely smart environment of Brandi’s pizzeria) has definitely grown as a foodstuff into a class of its own. Brandi’s proudly display a plaque on the wall declaring the restaurant as the true home of the Margherita and the place is doing a roaring trade.

The place was efficient and bustling, the serviettes, menus and waiters all impeccably presented.

I had never before imagined that it may be possible to enjoy a pizza as fine-dining, given the bastardised version of pizza that we usually get here in the UK, but the real thing is a light, perfectly balanced ensemble of flavours, low in grease content and put together with skill and care.

An impossibly light, pleasingly chewy, exquisitely salty base gives way under the moistening, acidic bite of the local tomatoes (which are purportedly crushed by hand to order, rather than scooped out of a jar or a can) and the whole thing is topped off with slivers of excellent cheese and the aromatic flavours of a wilted basil leaf. Cooked very quickly at an incredibly high temperature in a traditional oven the pizza retains a smokiness and a freshness that is difficult to emulate.

My enjoyment of the pizza was undoubtedly enhanced by Heston Blumenthal’s infectious food-geekery, but I love the way that he researches and engages with the traditions of various foodstuffs and the contexts that he gives to dishes. He writes respectfully, obsessively and with great passion about the pizzas of Italy and though I was sad that we never got to sample the fare at El Presidente, or L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele, I do see that the closure of many places for August is as much a part of Italy as its inimitable cuisine. Once we gave up on trying to visit things in the city, we did what the natives do and spent the day mucking about in the sea which is probably the best thing you can do when it’s 38 degrees outside.

Probably just as, yesterday, in the cooling temperatures of Autumn, peeling apples and roasting fish was the very thing in terms of food, and season.