This week I was on vacation, and I must confess: pizza, pizza, pizza was my lifeblood, the fuel that revved up the rusty engine of Goofy's car. As soon as I arrived, Saturday, I felt the primal call of the unknown and set out in pursuit of a name that seemed like a mirage in the desert of appetite: "Pizza Kebab 2."
That day, I wasn't just looking for food. I was looking for a borderline experience, one that makes you question your life choices, a place so greasy and desperate that even my survival instinct questioned whether it was worth it. The online reviews were like ancient scrolls announcing the arrival of chaos: it was the signal I'd been waiting for.
When I opened the box, a waft of undefined aromas hit me full in the face, like a punch from a drunken old boxer I'd met one night nearby. And there, like a talisman of filth, a hair towered above everything else, confirming I was in the right place.
The ingredients, taken individually, were an insult to gastronomy: the meat looked like sweaty plasticine, the cheese a failed experiment in dairy alchemy, the tomato a red scream in a silent night. But together... oh, together they were poetry. A dissonant and perfect harmony, an orgy of flavors so absurd they seemed directed by a mad genius in the kitchen. It was Mozart's Symphony No. 40 in G minor played on broken instruments, but damned alive.
In the days that followed, I returned there like a sailor who has found his cursed island. Three times a day, sometimes more. But it wasn't hunger, no: it was chemistry. A visceral, chemical hunger that drove me to seek out that radioactive mixture of ingredients like an art addict searches for his next masterpiece.
In that greasy-sacral dive, I found my personal Grail: a pizza that doesn't know what it wants to be, but nevertheless shouts it to the world with legendary boldness.
Elia Mazzocchin
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26 Luglio 2025
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