Featured Article » Fiction

The Misadventures of T & V: Mama Mia, That's A Good Pizza Pie!

Written by Jon and Linda Sonnenleiter

Early October 1634, Naples

The ash dust flew up when Vince fell flat on his face. They had just left the main entrance to the mission’s rented villa and Vince had tripped in a hole he hadn't been able to see.

Tim laughed. “What kind of impression are you going to give the Italians, Vince? They'll probably think you're some kind of major klutz."

Tim Claggett stood 6 feet tall and weighed 190 pounds. A big change from up-time, when he'd been a junk food addict and had weighed 310 pounds. Both men were in their early thirties and in excellent shape. That helped when you were meant to be an embassy guard.

When he was standing above the road, instead of lying on it, Vincent Petrini, aka Vince, was 5 feet 10 inches and weighed in at 160 pounds. Except for the pound of Vesuvius’ ash that he was busily brushing from his clothes.

“Damn. You’d think these pockets of ash would have blown out to sea after three years,” said Vince. “But no, the wind keeps bring that volcano’s ash into the city every time the winds come from the south. I’m tired of tripping in these ash-covered holes in the road." Vince's face was glum. "It’s been a bad day and I’m pissed. Let’s go.” He took off for town at a fast walk.

“Well, what are we going to do now?" asked Tim. He hurried to keep up with Vince who was heading towards the middle of town.

They'd been the city four times since they arrived. By now, they considered themselves old hands at finding their way around, even though they'd only been a mile or less from the villa. The town seemed very busy, and at times dangerous. Still, they were starting to get a little bored with the uptight people and the lack of good food. “Good” food, of course, meaning junk food.

Tim kept dreaming of big, greasy cheeseburgers dripping with ketchup, mustard, onions, lettuce, tomatoes and a half pound of grease from the grill. The kind that were served with western fries, smothered in salt, with a jumbo strawberry shake. Or maybe foot long hot dogs smothered in everything, with a cherry vanilla coke to wash everything down. His mouth watered just thinking about it.

“Damn it, what I wouldn’t give to have a big cheesy pizza with the works." Vince shouted to the sky. He stopped quickly, causing Tim to bump into him. “ Man, this is Italy, the home of great pizzas. Where are the pizza shops? There has to be someone who knows something about the subject.”

“Vince, remember this is 1634. Hell, Italy isn’t really Italy yet. It’s not like back home in our time, where you couldn’t go a few blocks without seeing a pizza shop, or any kind of fast food place."

“It’s not fair," Vince said as he slumped against the stone wall. “There has to be somewhere here that can make a decent pizza.”

Vince knew that being here was hard on Tim but here they were. All anyone could do was try to make the best of a bad situation and try to look on the bright side. If there is one he thought. At least some things had improved since they got here. Tim had lost over one hundred pounds, fine. But still and all, there was no sense in having to eat the same old food day after day. There was no imagination in the Italian foods. They needed to mix things up a little.

Vince let out a long sigh and started to walk a lot slower. This time Tim was right beside him and not hurrying to keep up. They walked in silence, passing all the street vendors hawking their wares and people pushing each other to get to what they were selling.

“Well, where do you want to go eat now?” Vince asked. When there was no reply he turned to see that Tim wasn’t there. He looked around and didn’t see him. “Now where in blue blazes did he get off to?”

Vince took a moment to look around him but saw no Tim. He started to walk back the way he came, all the while looking around to see if Tim was among the crowd. A few minutes later he spotted Tim. He was talking with a man who was selling fruits by a fountain. The fear he had been feeling that his friend might have been taken by some thugs was turning into anger. He rushed up to Tim and grabbed him by his right arm and spun him around to face him. The fruit vendor let out a little yelp and jumped under his table, almost knocking it over.

Vince felt like punching Tim for scaring him that way. Instead, he pushed him a bit and shouted, “Don’t ever do that again. Disappear on me like that. I thought some thugs might have jumped you and shuffled you away. Worse yet, what if a couple of Spanish soldiers wanted one of their special chats with you? If you’re going to stop somewhere let me know.”

“I told you I was going to go ask someone where they make pizzas. You must not have heard me.” Tim rubbed the arm Vince had grabbed. He started off back down the street. “I thought you heard me. Shit, do a guy a favor and he goes off like this. If a couple of criminals took hold of me, I'd have hollered and fought like hell. Ah, shit. I need a drink.”

“I need a whole bottle,” muttered Vince.

They went to their favorite tavern and picked a table toward the back of the room. "A jug of the best red," Tim said. The waiter scurried off and brought the wine in short order. They were on their second glass when Vince finally spoke.

“Sorry, man. I never should have gone off on you like that. But how was I to know you decided to ask questions and weren’t kidnapped? Damn, it’s hard to think of the Spanish ruling the roost here.”

“I should have made sure you heard before I stopped to talk to that guy. I’m sorry, too.” Tim raised his glass and nodded. Vince clinked his glass to Tim’s and they both drank the wine straight down. “But I did find out there's a place here that specializes in making pizzas and I thought I'd treat you to one.”

“Pizza like the ones we got back home?”

“I doubt it," Tim said. "But I thought we could give it a try. In fact, I got to thinking . . . maybe if it isn’t like we could get back home, well, just maybe we could teach them how to make a really awesome pizza." He paused a moment and gave Vince a sly wink. "Never know. We might just make a little money on the side teaching them how to do it.”

“You mean like a franchise, like a McDonald’s or something?” Vince liked the way his friend was thinking. For once, he thought, they could be making money the easy way like so many others were. If a bunch of teenagers could do it, why couldn't they? “Do you think we got the stuff here to do it?”

“Vince, we just walked through an open market. Didn’t you see the different meats and vegetables and smell the spices?”

“Uh . . . no. I wasn’t paying any attention, I was still mad at you.” Vince took another sip of his wine.

“Come on, Vince." Tim rolled his eyes. "We've been though here before. Didn't you notice anything then?”

Vince made a face. “Okay, okay. You got me. I just never notice things like that. I was looking at buildings and people. I mean, I saw they were selling food. I just never noticed what kind. I guess that makes me a lousy Italian. Mom would be in seventh heaven here. It’s really funny. Up-time I always wanted to visit Italy. But now that I’m here, it’s dangerous and dirty and it really, really stinks.”

“Amen to that," Tim said. "Just trust me. I noticed the food. Everything we need is here, if it isn’t . . . well, then we can make do with what we do have. Where there's a will, there's a way. What do you say, partner?”

“You know Phil doesn’t want us making any waves. The political situation here is dangerous.”

“I guess that’s why he wants us wearing civilian clothes outside the compound on our own time.” Tim poured the last of the wine in the glasses. “We can be careful. What do you say?”

“ I say, I’ve always wanted to own a pizza joint.”

***

It took them about twenty minutes to find the restaurant the vendor told Tim about. Gillmarino By The Sea it was called, and it wasn’t too far from the villa where they were staying. They stopped for a moment before getting too close and took a look at it. It wasn’t that large. And, well, Tim had to admit that it was a little run down. But there was some space in front that could have some tables put out in it. A vision of a picture he'd seen bubbled to the surface of his mind. Tables on a patio. Wrought iron chairs and tables. Blue umbrellas with the word "Cinzano" emblazoned on them. Yeah. This could work for that. Probably eight tables would fit out front. Maybe a couple of benches. Yeah.

The place wasn't too crowded and getting a table was fast. The first thing they ordered was the best wine they served. When the waiter brought them the bottle and two glasses, they ordered a pizza with the works.

The waiter just looked at them as though they asked for something strange. Tim tried to explain to him what they wanted in his limited Italian and still that look remained. After several minutes, the waiter snapped his fingers and said, “ Ah! Neapolitan pie.”

“Whatever you call it. Yes, yes.” Tim nodded vigorously. “We want the works.”

The waiter bowed and headed for the kitchen. Twenty minutes later he came back and placed a large round plate on the table. He stood there smiling.

Vince and Tim looked at what he brought them and they both were speechless. On the plate was a round of cooked dough maybe seven inches in diameter. It had some sliced tomatoes, some green leaves that maybe were a herb of some kind and very little cheese. They looked at each other and then at the still smiling waiter.

“This isn’t a pizza.” Vince said. “It sort of looks like maybe a poor example or . . . or . . ."

“It looks like something a four year old would try to do,” Tim piped in. “Is this your specialty? Can we talk with the manager for a few minutes?”

“Yeah. We don’t mean any disrespect to your restaurant, but we would like to show you how to make a pizza from our time,” Vince said.

“This may be your best.” Tim pointed to the pie. “But we can make it even better.”

The waiter left with a concerned look on his face. He returned with a short, bald man who introduced himself as one of the owners of the place.

***

Marco felt a little worried about these up-timers and hoped there wouldn’t be any problems with them. He knew he and his family couldn’t afford to lose any more business or they would lose the restaurant and everything else. He hoped that these two men wouldn’t be his downfall. They tried to serve the best food they could but sometimes that wasn’t always easy. The Spanish had placed some pretty high taxes on them—not to mention that they always required the best food for themselves. That left very little for Marco and his people to choose from. He hoped that what the waiter told him was true, that these men could help him. He could use a little bit of luck right now.

“You gentlemen do not like the pie?” he asked, wringing his hands nervously. “This is the best in the house. We only use the best in such a noble dish. We can make you something else to your liking. We wish . . . to . . . ”

Tim held his hand up to stop the chatter. “We want to help you. Of course, ourselves, as well. What's your name?”

“I am Marco. My family and I own this little place. You wish to help me in some way? May I join you at your table?”

“Please. Join us and have a drink of this excellent wine.” Vince motioned towards the empty seat and asked the waiter to bring another glass. “You probably know just from looking at us that we're what people call ...