Naples belongs in Asia rather than Europe. It’s narrow busy streets are exactly like Macau down to the washing hung out each window of the dirty tenements. But if the city is in the wrong continent, via Tribuniale on a Sunday after Mass is a street which is in the wrong century.
Families throng around stalls selling food and trinkets and nearly genuine leathergoods, and most of all the pastries, while motor scooters and cars push through the crowds one by one like the carts and palanquins of old. Musicians play by the fountain for coins. Young bravos strut about for the benefit of the gaggles of young girls, and children and pickpockets run in and out looking for trouble.
We found our way there on a tip from Tamh’s friend in London. 32 via Tribuniale has the best pizza in the city which invented it, he said. We were tired and hungry and the queue was daunting, but administered with imperious efficiency by Mama Sorbello. Her grown son and daughter waited tables and the grandparents’ photos looked down from the walls. Outside pizza dough rolled flat was deep fried as a snack.
Inside, the bustle and clangor included jokey asides from Papa on the loudspeaker as he called out the takeaway orders, a self appointed opera singing evangelist (equipped with his own backing music and two little brass cups to collect donations), and the normal fuss and argument and warmth of the italian family luncheon. Amidst all this brother and sister brought out the huge delicious pizzas of tomato, aged salami, capers, basil, olives, and most of all provolone and creamy fresh bufalo mozzarella. Six euros is a wonderful feast!
Later, full to bursting, we walked back down the street eating Sfogliattelli from a stall – the most delicious custard filled pastries (a suggestion of Pamela Drew, thanks Pamela!!) – before getting briefly lost on the way to the Museo Acheologica Napoli.