The Definitive Guide to Pizza in Naples (Unabridged)

Reviewing 30 of Napoli’s most renowned pizzerias

Are you uninterested in the minutiae of Neapolitan pizza? Do you not care about the backstories of Naples’s most historic pizzerias? Have you better things to do than read me wax poetic about pizza and Naples for over 6,000 words? Then skip to the abridged version — a straightforward tiering of Naples pizzerias sans historical commentary, personal anecdotes, or fluff. Just succinct descriptions of the pizza at each spot.

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My journey to Naples began all the way back in 2013, when I was looking for my first part-time job. Shortly after turning sixteen, a bright orange sign went up along a road I took often, announcing the grand opening of a Woodbury location of Punch Neapolitan Pizza, including “Now Hiring!” in big, bold letters. I needed a job and was a big fan of Punch, having gone to the one in St. Paul since I was young, so I figured it was as good a first job as any.

As an inaugural employee, hired prior to the grand opening, I helped to install some of the final decorations, including tiling the pizza oven and arranging a wall of black-and-white photos featuring scenes from Naples: water buffalo grazing in a marsh, a master pizzaiolo before a fiery oven, kids playing soccer in a courtyard, a gritty street full of bustle. Those photos enchanted younger me, and I looked at them frequently throughout my five-year tenure at Punch, during which time I went from being just a fan of Punch to a full-blown devotee of Neapolitan pizza.

I’ve never forgotten those photos — nor has my passion for Neapolitan pizza dampened — so, with the newfound freedom of a digital nomad, I excitedly made the pilgrimage to the Mecca of pizza — to experience the city that first enchanted me through those black-and-white photos all those years ago, to eat at the world’s most renowned Neapolitan pizzerias, and to answer a question I’d long wondered about: how does Punch compare?

Although I have plenty of observations about Naples as a whole — the filth, the natural beauty, the Maradona worship, the fierce pride of Napolitano identity, among many others — since my trip to Naples was primarily dedicated to pizza, I’ve narrowed the focus of this post to just a single observation — which, in actuality, is a paean to Neapolitan pizza combined with discursive reviews of all the notable pizzerias I ate at throughout my forty or so days in Naples.

My thoughts on the pizza of Naples —

The pizza is so good

From the moment I arrived in Naples, I had a singular pursuit: to find the best pizzeria in the motherland. This meant eating a whole lot of margheritas — the definitive Neapolitan pizza. Stripped to its essentials, a margherita has no frills or fancy toppings to hide behind. It’s the purest distillation of pizza, an unvarnished expression of a pizzaiolo’s craft — which, naturally, makes it the only fair basis for comparison and the only pizza on which to base my judgments.

My quest consumed nearly all my free time in Naples: researching, walking, waiting, eating, walking again, and writing it all down. Over the course of my stay, I ate pizza every day, sometimes more than once, and a few times even managed to put down three in a single day. In total, I ate north of 50 margheritas at more than 30 pizzerias, walked over 250,000 steps traveling to and from pizzerias, spent nearly a thousand euros at pizzerias — and, of course, formed plenty of opinions along the way.

A common refrain you will hear when discussing the best pizzerias in Naples is that you “can’t get a bad pizza in Naples.” And while that might hold true for non-fanatics just looking to enjoy authentic pizza in its birthplace while passing through as part of a longer tour of Italy, throughout my journey I discovered what any true Neapolitan Pizza Connoisseur will tell you: even with just eight ingredients, the difference between the best and merely passable is profound.

Though simple and generally sourced from the same regions, the eight ingredients — water, salt, yeast, flour, cheese, tomatoes, basil, and olive oil — vary greatly in quality, while differences in preparation and baking techniques further influence the final product, often in dramatic ways. These variations ultimately manifest in the three main elements I was assessing: cheese (fior di latte or mozzarella di bufala), sauce, and crust — each of which plays a distinct role and carries its own potential for brilliance or failure. And yet, it’s in their union that the full organoleptic experience takes shape.

Cheese, for all its allure — and despite being a food that I love dearly — is the component I find least critical of the three core elements. It’s a ceiling-raiser, not a floor-setter: capable of elevating a pizza with a great sauce and crust to something transcendent, but never defining the experience on its own. A bad sauce or crust will actively ruin a pizza, but the cheese has to be aggressively subpar to become a true detractor, something I never encountered in Naples. At worst, the cheese was simply bland: it failed to enhance the pizza but didn’t ruin it either. The best cheeses, however, lifted pizzas with great sauce and crust to an almost unmatched level of epicurean delight — the simultaneous simplicity and depth of flavor rivaled only by top-tier nigiri.

Since it is literally just crushed tomatoes — albeit typically with salt, EVOO, and basil added after being spread on the dough — the quality of the sauce all comes down to terroir. Despite all pizzerias purporting to use San Marzano tomatoes, not all are grown equally. The best sauces are made from true San Marzano tomatoes — aka those with a DOP certification (Protected Designation of Origin) — which means they have been grown from heirloom seeds in the volcanic soil of Sarnese Nocerino (an area of less than 200 sq km) using time-worn production and processing techniques. Since only an estimated 100 tons of canned DOP San Marzano tomatoes are produced each year — a fraction of the total canned tomato market comprising 1.65 million tons — the vast majority of sauce, even when labeled “San Marzano,” lacks the designation. And if it doesn’t carry the DOP mark, it means the tomatoes were likely neither grown in the volcanic soil of Mt. Vesuvius nor produced within the strict parameters prescribed under DOP — creating a different terroir, ultimately altering the flavor and, most importantly, the perceived acidity.

(More commonly referred to as “sourness,” the perceived acidity of a sauce — a combination of the sugar content, proportion of acids, pH level, and titratable acid — when too high, will completely imbalance the pizza, overwhelming the other flavors and leaving an unpleasant bitterness, ruining the pizza.)

While the quality of the first two depends largely on natural forces, the crust reflects the most anthropogenic influences. This gives it both the greatest margin for error and widest room for distinction, making it both a floor-setter and a ceiling-raiser — and, for that reason, the most important of the three elements. Although all Neapolitan dough begins with the same basic four ingredients — water, salt, yeast, and 0 or 00 flour — differences in ingredient ratios, fermentation methods, stretching techniques, and cooking styles produce unique crusts with dramatic differences in flavor, bite, texture, and mouthfeel.

The most important of these influences — or, at least, the one that produces the clearest qualitative difference, one that’s visually manifest — is how the dough ball is rolled and stretched, which results in one of three distinct styles:

• Pizza a rota ‘e carretta — Translated as “cart and wheel,” or simply “cartwheel” or “wheel,” this style — recognized as a traditional variant by the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana (AVPN) — gets its name from its large diameter and extreme thinness, resembling the wheel of a cart. The wheel is formed by stretching the dough to its limits, creating a paper-thin center and a rim just a centimeter or so high. The resulting pizza is one so large that it flops over the sides of the plate, and its crust is so thin that it becomes oversaturated by the juices of the crushed tomatoes, olive oil, and mozzarella, creating what many describe as a “soupy” or “watery” center. This is the “everyman” style: places that serve cartwheel pizzas are typically no-frills, inexpensive, and high volume.

• Pizza a canotto — In a similar naming scheme to the one above, this contemporary style — not recognized by the AVPN — is called “inflatable boat” or “dinghy” because of its bulbous rim and sunken center. This Michelin Man-like rim is so exaggerated and full of air that it overshadows the rest of the pizza — so much so that many feel this style leaves too little room for the sauce, cheese, and toppings. This style is most often found at modern, full-service pizzerias that are relatively upscale.

• Pizza verace — The verace style — a cognate of “veracity” — is so named because it is the most genuine of the three, adhering most closely to the exacting guidelines set forth in the AVPN regulations. This is the default Neapolitan pizza, by far the most common style in Naples and around the world. For those familiar with Punch Pizza, this is the style of its pizzas. (Ironically, the favorite Naples pizzeria of the founder of Punch Pizza is Da Michele — more on this below — renowned for its cartwheel style.) This is the “just right” Goldilocks style: falling somewhere between the wheel and boat styles, it’s neither too thin nor too inflated, offering a substantial chewy crust without stealing the spotlight.

Although each style brings something different to the table, across all three, I was by and large looking for the same basic criteria: rims that were light and chewy, centers that were thin and floppy, bottoms with good leoparding, and a flavor that was salty and yeasty without overwhelming.

When evaluating pizzas by these criteria — and, more specifically, the criteria outlined in the AVPN International Regulations, which only a true sicko (me) would read cover to cover — I found pizzerias that I loved and ones that left something (or some things) to be desired. And, as much as I want to definitively point to one as the best, the truth is that the best of the best are impossible to rank. Each is worthy of praise in its own right, serving pizzas made with a clear love and passion for the craft. The differences at the top are less a question of quality and more of personal preference: How thick do you like the crust? Do you like wet cheese or cheese that has been drained? Do you prefer a higher or lower sauce-to-cheese ratio? Etc.

So, instead of a forced ranking, I’ve placed the pizzerias into four tiers.

1. The first tier is the pantheon: the sublime, the best of the best, those worthy of every accolade. These are the places that make me smile whenever I think of them — the ones that left an indelible mark on my taste buds’ memory.

2. The second tier includes pizzerias that left me fully satisfied. And, while they don’t quite belong in the pantheon, they’re still worth seeking out when in Naples.

3. The third tier is by far the largest, made up of pizzerias that are good, but ones I’d only visit if convenient and for which I would not wait in a queue.

4. The fourth and lowest tier includes places I left with regret, thinking my money and calories could have been better spent elsewhere.

(Note: I visited each pizzeria in the top two tiers at least twice.)

Here’s how all 30 stand up:

Tier 1: The best of the best

Starita

The margherita here is the quintessential verace style: the crust has the ideal chewiness, the sauce is perfectly balanced, and the cheese is full of flavor. This is deservedly the most popular pizzeria outside the Historical Center, attracting both locals — many of whom claim it as their favorite in the city — and tourists alike. It’s the closest I ate in Naples to Punch’s margherita (both use cold fermentation, for starters), which is probably why I liked it so much.

La Notizia 53

Located nearly an hour from the nearest train station, La Notizia requires an arduous trek along a road replete with steep switchbacks and vertiginous stairs as it snakes its way to the top of one of Naples’s highest neighborhoods. I endured this trip not once, not twice, but thrice — a testament to the delicious pizza crafted by Enzo Coccia. The crust strikes the perfect balance of chewiness and lightness — so light I could eat two without a second thought, especially after the strenuous workout required to reach the restaurant.

But the true star is the cheese — and, while the mozzarella is delicious, the provola di bufala (essentially smoked mozzarella di bufala) is spiritual: an initial smokiness gives way to a sharpness that blends with the mildly tart sauce and yeasty crust to create an explosion of flavor, one that makes your eyes roll back in your head as your parasympathetic nervous system relaxes and you, if only for a moment, feel infinite gratitude that the powers that be put you on earth at a time and with a privilege that lets you travel halfway around the world for these transcendent experiences.

Sasà Martucci - Pizzeria I Masanielli

This pizzeria is technically in Caserta, about 25 kilometers outside Naples, right by the largest palace in Europe (bigger than Versailles, even). The surname Martucci is well known among pizza aficionados in the area, as Sasà and his brother Francesco run two of the most highly acclaimed pizzerias in the world, located just minutes apart.

While Francesco’s pizzeria is more popular and widely renowned — though Sasà is no slouch, with plenty of accolades to his name — I found the pizza here to be the better of the two. I’m confident I’ve never eaten a better boat-style margherita with mozzarella di bufala in my life: a perfect balance of saltiness, acidity, and sapidity, topped with the creamiest mozzarella di bufala I’ve ever had (tied with that of his brother’s pizzeria), and a crust that’s like biting into a golden-brown marshmallow.

Sasà’s commitment to his craft is evident on the final page of the menu: a list detailing nearly a dozen different varieties of olive oil used on his pizzas, each with its own distinct flavor profile.

Pizzeria Pellone

The pizzas at Pellone are gigantic and filling — the size of a wheel but with a crust closer in thickness to verace. Although the rim is a bit dense, the overwhelming flavor of the center makes this a pizzeria worthy of the top tier. Pellone uses generous thick globs of chewy mozzarella di bufala, with a squeakiness reminiscent of Wisconsin cheese curds. The juices from the cheese mix with the crushed tomatoes and olive oil creating a rose pink soup in the middle of the pizza, perfect for sopping up with the chewy rim.

Concettina ai Tre Santi

This pizzeria is downright confounding: it’s in a traditionally working-class neighborhood, outside the typical tourist radius, and extremely popular with locals — run by the fourth generation of the Oliva family, one of Naples’s most revered pizza bloodlines — yet a plain margherita costs an eye-watering €12. This price is unconscionable for Naples, quite possibly the highest in the entire city.

How could a place historically beloved by locals be significantly more expensive than even the most touristy spots? The answer is private equity, of course: outside investors bought a 47.5% stake in the pizzeria in 2023 and swiftly made dramatic changes. The entire restaurant — from its takeaway boxes to its ordering system — got a facelift, while a second location was opened in the bougie Capri (where there is a constant supply of price-insensitive customers). The transformation is evident in pictures from Google Maps reviews: before 2023, the pizzeria had a simple paper menu with a €6 margherita versus the menu today, which is printed on premium waterproof paper, with bold colors and modish graphic design — and a margherita that is now priced at €12.

Here’s where it gets interesting: a takeaway area directly next to the main entrance has some high tables, a few stools, disposable cutlery — and a takeaway menu listing a margherita at €5. To be clear, this is the exact same pizza — made in the same kitchen with the same ingredients — as the one served next door. The only major difference, other than the price, between the takeaway and the dine-in menus is that the options for the former are more limited — but the most important pizzas (i.e., margherita, margherita with mozzarella di bufala, and marinara) are all there. A surcharge or modestly higher price for dining in is not abnormal, but more than twice the price of takeaway is preposterous.

But wait — that’s not all! The pizzeria still has a €3 coperta (or “cover”) per person dining in and the drinks are outrageously priced, with a regular bottle of water priced at €5. So for €6 I ate a margherita and drank a bottle of water on a stool at a high-top in the takeaway area, whereas if I had been seated at a table literally 30 feet away from me — eating the exact same pizza and drinking the exact same water — it would have cost €20.

Because this has all the markings of a slimy scheme cooked up by PE to exploit tourists and those not in the know, I so desperately wanted to dislike the pizza here. I went in fully expecting that the PE firm, in addition to jacking up the prices, had cut the ingredient quality.

I was very wrong: as loath as I am to admit it, the pizza remains fantastic. The sauce and cheese are great — both rich and bursting with flavor — but what truly sets this place apart is the crust.

This verace-style rim, perfected over four generations, delivers the sensorial ideal to which every Neapolitan pizzeria should aspire: a subtle crunch gives way to a deeply satisfying chew, all while remaining light and buoyant, with substantial air pockets throughout. I’m going to have dreams about this perfectly leavened, well-hydrated, leopard-spotted, oven-kissed masterpiece of dough fermentation.

So, yeah, a perfect crust, all four times I visited, vaults this enigmatic pizzeria of questionable practices into the hallowed top tier — but only if you stick to takeaway.

Tier 2: Worth seeking out

L’Antica Pizzeria Da Michele

It’s impossible to discuss this pizzeria without mentioning that it’s where Julia Roberts’s character eats in Eat, Pray, Love — and, in no small part because of this, it’s by far the most famous pizzeria in Naples. Da Michele was a five-minute walk from my apartment, but I only went twice because the queue is reliably insane. To avoid the wait, both times I went right before it opened at 10:30am, and even that early, the restaurant filled up quickly, with a queue having formed by the time I left.

Superficially, Da Michele is as simple and traditional as it gets: a wheel-style that has been served up in the same no-frills, cash-only environment for generations — and one of the few remaining pizzerias with a menu comprising only margherita and marinara. But surreptitiously undermining the authenticity are two changes made by the current generation presiding over Da Michele that many consider cardinal sins and disqualify it from AVPN certification: using soybean oil instead of EVOO and San Marzano tomatoes grown outside the soil of Mount Vesuvius.

Even though the most authentic Neapolitan pizza in the world traded its authenticity for low prices — fortunately, the taste remains mostly intact, as Da Michele retains its title as the best inexpensive cartwheel pizza in the city (world?).

I Masanielli di Francesco Martucci

The elder brother of Sasà — a very large man who swaggers around his restaurant in head-to-toe understated Rick Owens (or as understated as Rick Owens can be) — is a phenom in the Campania region. While the mozzarella di bufala used here is phenomenal — tied with his brother’s for the creamiest I’ve ever had (I wonder if the two use the same supplier) — both pizzas I had suffered from the same two major flaws, keeping Francesco from the top tier.

The first issue was the excessive oil used, which caused it to pool in several spots. EVOO on a margherita should be purely additive, enhancing the flavor profile without being distinct. Unfortunately, there were bites where the initial taste was overwhelmingly of oil, before the full fusion of flavors could coalesce.

The other issue was that a crispy rim gave way to an impossibly light, gossamer interior. While this may sound delicious — and it was! — and may be preferred by some, these are not characteristics of an ideal Neapolitan crust, which should have limited crunchiness and a chewy fullness: cutting into the rim should depress it like a memory-foam pillow, not cause it to fracture and collapse like laminated glass.

Despite these flaws, it is still an extraordinarily delicious pizza — one I would happily eat every day.

50 Kalò

The pizza here is delicious, just an all-around great pizza: vibrant DOP sauce, succulent mozzarella, and a well-cooked crust. Ironically, though, my favorite part about 50 Kalò — and the reason I went back twice — was the craft beer. The 50 Kalò blonde ale is handily the best beer I’ve had in Europe and possibly the best non-IPA beer I’ve ever had.

Diego Vitagliano Pizzeria

Having placed in the top two in the 50 Top Pizza guide for two years running, Vitagliano serves a feather-light, contemporary style pizza that isn’t my personal favorite but is still good enough that I can’t quibble too much with its top ranking. The lightness of the rim results from dough with high hydration, very low salt, and long fermentation — yielding a crust that’s exceptionally leavened and worthy of admiration, even if my own preference is for one with a bit more bite and chew. The pizza was finished with an unobjectionable tomato sauce and a truly delicious mozzarella.

Plus, for those who do not eat gluten, Vitagliano takes its commitment to this population extremely seriously: there’s an entire separate oven dedicated to just gluten-free pizzas, enclosed in a glass room to reduce contamination by the flour that is ever-present in the air of pizzerias.

Da Attilio

I wanted to like Attilio more than I did, so much so that I went back twice just to see if I was missing something. Each time I found the pizza to be very good but not as good as I expected based on others’ opinions. While researching best pizzerias, this place came up again and again — cited by respected authorities, locals, and people who really seemed to know their Neapolitan pizza. But, for whatever reason, the pizza just didn’t wow me. It was missing that je ne sais quoi: the tomatoes and mozzarella lacked the extra bit of pizzazz needed to earn a spot in the top tier.

Pizzeria Carmnella dal 1892

My favorite part of Carmnella’s very good margherita is that it has eight(!) different options of crushed tomatoes — from the quintessential San Marzano to an unconventional yellow piennolo.

Still, the specialty pizzas at Carmnella shine the brightest. In particular, the Reginella was both beautiful and an explosion of flavor: the earthiness and slight sweetness of the zucchini cream sauce was complemented perfectly by the rich burrata and salty prosciutto — and I typically hate pizzas that don’t have a traditional red sauce. If I were factoring non-margherita pizzas into my ratings, this pizza was good enough to bump Carmnella into the top tier.

Tier 3: Solid but skippable

Pizzeria Imperatore 1906

The primary shortcoming of my margherita at 1906 Imperatore was its crust. It had a pleasant flavor with a subtle tang — I’m guessing from a sourdough starter — but was far, far too dense, resulting in stodgy bites and undercooked dough at the center of the rim. The tomato sauce had some brightness and a nice tartness, but there was too much of it, overwhelming the already bland mozzarella di bufala.

Pizza 3.0 Ciro Cascella

The “3.0” in the name comes from the three different types of flour used in the dough. This innovative recipe, combined with a 24-hour fermentation and 12-hour leavening process, leads to an extraordinarily large and puffy boat-style rim that unfortunately goes just a bit overboard^{ba dum tss} — tipping into slightly stodgy territory.

Overall, the entire experience — from the trendy decor, to the fancy menu, to the contemporary pizza — felt like it was contrived to win Michelin Stars. And, considering the restaurant proudly displays its Michelin plaques from the past four years on the entrance outside, I guess it accomplished its goal.

Pizzeria Salvo

Holy salt! The crust and mozzarella were solid enough, though not particularly remarkable. The real issue was the sauce: while it seemed to be made with quality tomatoes that had the right acidity, it was hard to tell beneath the overwhelming brininess.

Vincenzo Capuano

This ostentatious boat-style margherita was defined by excess: too much crust, too much cheese, too much sauce, and too much olive oil. (It had the perfect amount of basil, though — because excess, in Naples, a city that chronically under-basils its margheritas, is actually just right.)

Despite the glut — or perhaps because of it — the pizza was rich and enjoyable, even if it had undeniable shortcomings as a classic Neapolitan pizza. Capuano’s pizza is unlikely to sway traditionalists or purists, but for those to whom “AVPN” means nothing, it offers a tasty pizza and novel experience: customers are given a shiny pair of scissors to cut the gigantic crust.

And I think everyone can agree that the rim — unbelievably light despite its bulky appearance — is a remarkable feat of leavening.

Bro Ciro & Antonio Tutino

A really good wheel crust, with a nice kiss on the rim — which is when the pizzaiolo holds the pizza up to the top of the scorching oven for a few seconds before taking it out — was only to be let down by insipid sauce and flavorless cheese. Seriously, the sauce was so flat that I’m left to wonder if it was made from GMO tomatoes you’d find at Walmart. But this was literally the only restaurant I went to in Naples that served ice with my Coke Zero, so that’s a plus.

Antica Pizzeria Del Borgo Orefici

Despite its name, this buzzy neighborhood spot is more of a trattoria than a pizzeria, with a menu that comprises pizza, fried antipasti, pasta, and other classic Italian dishes. Typically, I’m skeptical of pizza from trattorias — specialization is critical — but I’d read good things about this place so I decided to give it a try. Ultimately, the overly crunchy crust would have dragged this pizza down to the lowest tier if not for the spectacular crushed tomatoes that were well-balanced and bursting with flavor. I mean, just look at the vibrancy of the red in the photo! Whoever supplies the tomatoes to Del Borgo Orefici is growing something special.

Pizzeria Porzio

Errico Porzio is one of the most prominent pizza entrepreneurs in Italy, overseeing an empire that now includes 16 pizzerias spread across the peninsula. But it all started at his original pizzeria in the Soccavo neighborhood — still the best Porzio location, distinct in name and quality.

(The other locations — all branded as “Pizzeria Errico Porzio” — are commercialized versions of the original, prioritizing throughput and efficiency over quality and exactitude. Most are located in highly touristed areas, with massive dining areas, expansive covered patios, and kitchens equipped with three or four ovens.)

The popularity of his pizzerias is understandable: in addition to really solid classic pizzas, he offers an inventive array of Frankenstein pizza-esque creations, which are what really draw the crowds. (One such monstrosity, pictured below, combines four pizzas into one: a montanara, fried pizza, margherita DOP, and baked potato pizza.)

I personally find these so-called “social pizzas” to be abominations — tantamount to the extravagant “sushi” rolls so popular with Americans: $20+ creations piled high with multiple types of fish, stuffed with anything and everything imaginable (including cream cheese), and smothered in multiple sauces.

But I guess Porzio has earned the right to experiment, since the family has mastered the basics. The margherita was without complaint: a well-cooked rim and good leoparding, bright sauce in the right proportion, and a light yet chewy crust.

Pizzeria Antonio Sorbillo

Directly next door to the more famous Sorbillo (Gino e Toto Sorbillo — more on this next) is the smaller and less-heralded Sorbillo di Antonio, founded in 2007 by cousins Antonio and Gigi (who are cousins of the eponymous Gino and Toto). Unlike the celebrity pizzeria next door, which consistently has hordes waiting outside for a table, this one has little queue and, in my opinion, is a bit better. The crust was better hydrated and leavened, creating a lighter and chewier experience. And the crushed tomatoes had a bit more flavor, although neither pizzas’ sauce was particularly vibrant.

Gino e Toto Sorbillo

Second in fame to only Da Michele, Gino e Toto Sorbillo is an institution in Naples, the center of a pizzeria empire and culmination of a long line of pizzaioli. The two founders, Gino and Toto — the former is the pizzaiolo and face of the franchise — are sons of Salvatore Sorbillo, the nineteenth of the pizzaioli Luigi and Carolina Sorbillo’s 21 children, all of whom followed in their parents’ floury footsteps, becoming pizza chefs themselves.

Out of the many Sorbillos who have tried a hand at running a pizzeria, none has approached the success of Gino, who has turned his heritage into an empire — with pizzerias spread across Italy (and even one in Japan) and friggitorìas throughout central Naples, each featuring a cardboard cutout of Gino himself out front. At this point, the surname, “Sorbillo,” is synonymous with Gino, so much so that he took his cousin to court over the rights to it.

Despite all the fanfare, the pizza here — which I had thrice, mostly because it was right by my AirBnB and is one of the few pizzerias that doesn’t close for a siesta — is the definition of mediocre: the crust is medium-textured, the sauce is not overly acidic but lacks flavor, and the cheese feels more like a garnish than a key ingredient.

Pizzeria 400 Gradi

I didn’t write anything about this pizzeria at the time and don’t remember enough to say any more about it now. So I guess that in itself is the review: unremarkable. Looking at the picture, I am reminded that this is the only pizza I had in Naples that was pre-sliced, which I found odd.

La Figlia del Presidente

Pizza is a family business in Naples — nearly all of the renowned pizzerias are either passed down (oftentimes multiple generations) or founded by children of famous pizzaioli. And “by children,” I really mean sons; it’s almost unheard of for the daughter to continue the family tradition — but La Figlia, which translates to “the daughter,” is the exception. The pizzeria’s name (“The Daughter of the President”) pays homage to the owner’s father, who earned the nickname El Presidente after Bill Clinton visited his pizzeria in 1994 during the 20th G7 summit.

The wheel-style pizza here isn’t bad, but the crust was too crunchy, and the center was smothered in cheese and drenched in olive oil. Perhaps I’d rate it more highly if my criteria allowed for types of pizza other than margherita. I’ve heard the fried pizza is the true standout here, as evidenced by the large and disorganized “queue” of locals reliably waiting outside for a table until late into the night on weekends. (La Figlia is located a stone’s throw from my window, so I quickly grew accustomed to the racket of hungry Italians waiting for a table.)

Pizzeria Oliva da Carla e Salvatore

It was a passable margherita brought down by excessive sauce and an unevenly cooked crust.

Pizzeria Gaetano Genovesi

The crust was under-leavened, lacking bite and any notable mouthfeel. The bottom was also a bit undercooked. The sauce was fine — neither too acidic nor particularly flavorful. The mozzarella di bufala was by far the best part, with its milky flavor and superb creaminess.

Tier 4: Not worth the cash or calories

Antica Pizzeria Di Matteo

At nearly a century old, Di Matteo may have been worthy of its acclaim at one point — but that time seems to be well in the rearview. For whatever reason, Di Matteo remains very popular with both tourists and locals (most of whom, I suspect, are wearing nostalgia-tinted glasses). The sauce here is downright bitter, the sourest on this entire list. The rim also needed less flour and more character.

Pizzeria Brandi

Even older than Di Matteo, having been founded at the end of the 19th century, Brandi ostensibly invented the margherita in 1889 for a visit from Queen Margherita of Savoy. Like most legends, this story is almost certainly apocryphal: the combination of basil, tomatoes, and cheese on flatbread had already been served in Naples since at least the turn of the 18th century, as documented by several sources.

Nevertheless, that hasn’t stopped Brandi from displaying a plaque commemorating its “invention” of the margherita — or from trading on this falsehood. And, oh boy, does it capitalize on this fabrication: flocks of undiscerning tourists — and, it seems, only tourists, as this was the only pizzeria at which I didn’t hear a single Italian — gather here daily to taste the “original” margherita. It appears the owners have realized that pizza quality is unimportant when you have name recognition, as the pizza here was both disappointing and overpriced (€10 for a mediocre margherita is criminal).

The sauce and cheese were passable, but the crust was undercooked and dry — indicative of an insufficiently hot oven. I spied on the table next to mine, and the undercarriages of their pizzas were scorched — a complaint echoed in reviews that I read — so Brandi clearly has a problem with its quality control and oven temperature consistency.

OWAP

The tomatoes were too acidic, and far too much semolina or flour was left on the crust. If you’ve ever had a pizza with an extremely gritty crust that feels like biting into sandpaper, it likely means too much and too coarse a grain of semolina, flour, or cornmeal was used during rolling, stretching, or paddling. (If you zoom in on the rim, you can see the specks of semolina/flour.)

Pizzeria Al 22

It’s a shame that a pizza with such a supremely delectable sauce came with such an abysmal crust. Tying OWAP for the worst I had in Naples, this crust was as dense as a Trump supporter and as dry as Ben Shapiro’s wife. Instead of mewing, just regularly eat the pizza here and you’ll be looking like Gigachad in no time. The crumb was hygroscopic while its air pockets were microscopic — indicative of a dough desperately in need of more hydration and fermentation. If you’re a fan of overly dense German bread slathered in excellent tomato sauce, then this spot might be for you; otherwise, go elsewhere.

Antico Borgo Ai Vergini

The bottom of the pizza (pictured below) was absolutely scorched with a layer of burnt flour. It seems the pizzaiolo here mistook leoparding for panthering. As someone who has eaten hundreds of slices of burnt pizzas that failed the exacting quality control at Punch, I can say that even a pizza with a dark bottom can be passable if masked by other ingredients. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case at Borgo ai Vergini: the overall blandness only served to accentuate the taste of burnt flour. This was a pizza that in any respectable pizzeria would never have been served to a customer.

Pizzeria Del Popolo

The appeal of Popolo is its affordability: a margherita can be had for just five euro and no pizza on the menu tops ten euro. It’s not bad per se, and I have no major complaints, I just think that, given the abundance of options in Naples, spending an additional $2-$3 for a significantly more flavorful and well-crafted pizza is worth it.

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As delicious as these pizzas were — and, man, were they delicious — I’m fortunate that I don’t need to fly all the way to Naples every time I want to taste the best pizza the world has to offer (though I’m sure I’ll be back). As unbelievable as it sounds, the otherwise unremarkable Twin Cities is lucky enough to have a local chain of pizzerias that serves Neapolitan pizza just as good as any I had in Naples. So, there you have it, I can finally answer the long-awaited question — and say with complete confidence and authority: Punch absolutely holds up.

An example of a margherita from Punch with a nearly perfect crust — ideal char, character, and kiss — made by yours truly.