When the moon hits the sky...

...like a big pizza pie, That's Amore.

I adore pizza. For a bread obsessive who is more than a little partial to tomatoes and cheese, it is damn near perfect food. My obsession is relatively recent though; the pizza of my childhood was either the cardboard monstrosities made by the awful Deep Pan Pizza Company or my mother's well meaning but misguided efforts that consisted of a tray of bready wholemeal base topped with cheddar and green peppers. It probably came out of a Crank's vegetarian recipe book, which should tell you all you need to know. Any passing Neapolitan would have been mortified by the sight it. But hey, there weren't many passing Neapolitans in 1980s Worcester. The nearest we came was the multi-coloured ice cream Dad would serve up for dessert.

I'm not sure when I realised that pizza was one of the Greatest Things Ever but now I relish it with the sort of fervour only a convert can muster. I can sense the pilgrimage to Naples getting closer all the time. In the meantime we have two very good, unpretentious pizzeries nearby. Lavender Hill's Donna Margarita and Earlsfield's La Pernella. For what it is worth, the great Dan Lepard eats at the former and rates it as London's best.

Friday night found us in La Pernella, we turned up at 10 half-expecting a polite what-time-do-you-call-this but instead were welcomed like the family's fifth cousins twice-removed. Red wine, bruschetta, antipasti and a sensational half-metre pizza came to £34. We left happy with the bells ringing ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling, as we sang 'Vita Bella'...