Tampiz Pizzeria Bar, Tampa
What comes to mind when I say “French pizza”? Frozen halves of bread topped with hard splinters of icy cheese embedded in an arctic sheet of red? My misgivings weren’t so grim. When I’m feeling particularly dogmatic, I think of the pizza as one of those things you don’t mess with beyond the original: A Neapolitan yeast dough topped with simple seasoned tomato sauce, buffalo mozzarella, and fresh basil and olive oil, baked in a searingly hot oven. “French pizza” invoked a froufrou version of simple perfection that was wholly unnecessary.
But I’m no Francophobe. And I should know better, being trained in the French culinary method—French cuisine exemplifies superfluous as much as American cuisine exemplifies barbarian. Tampiz pizza could be bad or good on its own merits irrespective of the culinary roots. How would I know if I didn’t try it?
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