I am lucky enough to have spent Labor Day weekend in proximity to a wood-burning pizza oven, in which my sister and mother and I executed thin, slightly chewy pies all night. We started with a margherita, then got creative: caramelized onions with fontina and parsley, whites beans with sausage and ricotta salata. Each pie was packed with flavor but was simple, and left room for the crust to puff up at the edges.
Then my sister declared it time for a man pie. We sat back while they conferred, practically in a huddle, for what seemed like hours. We glimpsed some ambitious (and perhaps reckless) tossing of the dough, impatient peering into the oven and, finally, high-fiving when it emerged, triangular and a tad charred. The man pie was loaded with fontina, swiss chard, pancetta, and a fried egg. They beamed with pride, hugged, and posed for photographs before cutting into the thing. “Our inspiration was manliness,” they explained. “What do men love? Breakfast. We took it from there.”
The man pie was delicious, if lacking in refinement. They laid down afterwards.