To get to the Amalfi Coast, the nearest airport is Naples. And what comes to mind when you think of Naples? Neapolitan ice cream, maybe. Pizza, definitely. And of course, that line from That’s Amore:

“In Napoli, where love is king. Where boy meets girl. Here’s what they say…”

And that one line was playing on repeat in my head the entire time I was there. (Also, yes, they mention pizza in that song too.)

Anyway. I’m rambling.

It’s pizza. I stayed a whole night in Naples just to eat the famous pizza.

And it was bloody worth it.

I did my research on where the absolute best pizza in Naples could be found: All roads pointed to L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele.

I’d already admired the gorgeous Duomo, its front adorned with intricate blue and white murals. I’d had a lemon sorbet served in a scooped-out lemon peel (and tried desperately to eat it faster than it melted down my hand). I’d sipped an Aperol Spritz made the proper Italian way (no soda water, and very strong) and wandered down a street where every vendor sold nativity ornaments, each display more elaborate than the last.

Now, I was ready to sit down, eat some world-famous pizza, and sip a cold bottled beer.

I stepped into the white-tiled establishment. The air conditioning was cranked high — and I was grateful. A cheery waiter showed me to a table at the back (table for one), and I ordered from the menu. They run a pretty tight ship here, as much as Italian culture ever runs a tight ship, and even though it was around 4 p.m., the place was mostly full.

There are only about four options for pizza, but I had to go with the classic. I added a Peroni. No glass.

As I waited, a small part of me wondered: How good can a pizza really get?

I mean, I’ve ordered a mozzarella pizza. It’s got about three elements — dough, tomato sauce, cheese — to impress me.

That’s a pretty hefty task.

Whilst looking around the room as I waited for my order, my heart sank. I came to the awful realisation that I had accidentally Eat-Pray-Loved it.

There, on the wall, was a huge framed poster with an excerpt from the book, describing the main character’s visit to the very restaurant I was sitting in. On the opposite wall? A signed photo of Julia Roberts — inevitably from when they filmed the scene for the movie adaptation.

Can a girl not go on a solo holiday without forever being compared to this nonsense?

I kid, of course. Truthfully, the vivid description of the pizza I was about to taste made the perfect starter and had me practically salivating to try it for myself.

I’ll do my best to describe the experience without resorting to plagiarism.

My pizza arrived, and I cut my first section with my little knife and fork (no pre-cut slices, we’re eating the Italian way).

As soon as I tasted the morsel, I caught myself before saying an audible “Wow.”

Immediate explosions of fresh flavours, perfectly balanced. The mozzerella, nothing like the somewhat bland, watery version cheese I am used to from back home, was creamy and light, and yet still able to make its presence known. The perfectly charred crust evenly speckled gave just the right amount of smoky bitterness to complement the other more acidic flavours. But the standout for me was the tomato sauce. The perfect ratio to its counterparts, it succeeded in expanding those flavours with a youthful sweetness, tactfully balancing with the natural acidity in a tomato, avoiding overwhelming and causing the pie to become a dessert. It was like I could taste sun-filled garden from which the original fruit had come from, and with every bite the image got clearer and clearer in my mind.

And even though I’m not usually one to finish a whole pizza, it felt like an affront not to eat every last crust. Aided by regular sips of cold beer, I finished that pizza-pie — and by God, it was Amore.

Nothing about Naples is about frills, and that’s reflected in this pizza.

The city is rough around the edges, a bit dirty, teeming with life and traffic, everything stacked slightly on top of everything else. But it doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. It’s rich in culture and presents itself honestly.

I may be partial to the finer things in life, but you’ll never appreciate the world for what it is unless you can take the grit with the perfectly polished. This exact sentiment is offered to you in this pizza: history, culture, and most of all: flavour.

Can a pizza really be that good? Is it worth spending a whole night of my precious holiday there just to eat it? Is it worth braving the (potentially dodgy) streets of Naples to taste it in its most authentic form?

Abso-bloody-lutely.

And no, I’m not going to tell you how I found myself within those haphazard streets and came home a better person for it — you’ll have to find that sort of revelation within the pages of that godforsaken novel-slash-major motion picture.

L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele, Naples