Geric Plankton
When it comes to the world's top three cuisines, it refers to China, France, and Turkey, but for Japanese people, the most familiar Western cuisine is probably Italian cuisine. Among them, pizza has been a part of our lives long before the Corona pandemic, with flyers often being inserted into our mailboxes, tempting us to order pizza at unexpected times. The lineup of flyers neatly arranged in the mailbox, tempting us to enter the maze of pizza, whether it be late at night or on a holiday. The pizza culture in Japan has probably spread in this way. Originally, pizza originated not in Italy but in ancient Egypt. The use of wheat and water in food culture developed by the Mesopotamian civilization gradually spread to various parts of the world and evolved into its own form in Italy in the 16th century. By using tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, pizza became established as an Italian dish, and that is how it has come down to us. My encounter with a pizza specialty shop that seemed to overturn this pizza culture was in the spring of 2023. The dilapidated walls of the closed shop. Cold raindrops falling from the heavy clouds. Such an atmosphere and weather enveloped the area where residential areas and factories were mixed, with a somewhat melancholic sense of loneliness. It was already past 1 p.m. In that setting, the door of a shop that exuded a somewhat elegant and quiet impression compared to other shops was slightly ajar. When I tried to peek inside, a young man and woman who looked like office workers came out of the shop with their wallets in hand. "It was really delicious!" The conversation passed by my ears like a breeze. Naturally, my expectations for pizza swelled. The counter seats and table seats were almost full, but it seemed certain that seats would soon become available. After waiting for about 10 minutes, a female staff member guided me to the counter seat furthest back. In front of me, a kiln with flickering flames and a chef kneading and working on the pizza in front of the kiln. I looked at the menu. There was no lunch menu, only a choice between "Margherita" and "Marinara." In terms of drinks, the only options were paid mineral water, carbonated water, ginger ale, and beer, with no coffee available. It seemed that there was a special commitment to this shop's pizza. In any case, I ordered the "Marinara" (1,000 yen) and mineral water. The chef immediately got to work. The delicate and meticulous handwork that was carried out from his slender body could be observed up close, which was a privilege. The pizza that was quickly put into the kiln was enveloped in an enchanting flame and gradually transformed. I watched the process, and of course, the chef wouldn't miss the timing to take it out of the kiln. On the plate placed on the table, it emitted a vivid crimson glow like a fiercely burning lava in an angry expression. I gazed at it for a moment, watching its whole appearance. The Marinara at this shop is a pizza that consists of only tomato sauce and garlic, with nothing else to be found, and it does not accept anything else. Leonardo da Vinci said, "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." In order to bring out the flavor of the ingredients themselves, it seems that they have reached the ultimate sophistication. As I ate it with relish, the chef spoke to me from the kitchen. "We don't use olive oil here." What does that mean? Before I could wonder, the chef continued, "Using olive oil would make the taste of the ingredients disappear, so we use salad oil instead." The reason why there was no Tabasco on the table was due to the chef's pursuit of the ideal pizza. I see, the burnt wheat crust, the acidity of the tomato sauce, and the flavor of garlic come together to form a harmonious unity, leading to a taste I have never experienced before.