The heat from the oven mixed with the cool night air. The scent of burning wood wrapped around us. Dough slapped against the counter, flour dusted into the air. Some nights don’t need an explanation—they just stay with you. This was one of them.

We had Ivano Veccia with us, and if you’ve ever seen him in action, you know he doesn’t just make pizza—he lives it. There’s no pretense, no rehearsed lines, just pure instinct. This wasn’t a workshop. It was a full-blown experience.

Back in Ischia, I had watched him stretch the dough, tossing toppings like it was second nature. It looked effortless—but I knew better. I saw how much went into every step. Now, watching him bring that same raw energy here, in a place so different from his island, felt surreal. Some things lose something when taken out of their element. Great food? Great chefs? They don’t.

This really was an experience as we can see through these fun pictures : https://www.instagram.com/p/DGIYZcyorLD/?img_index=1.

The Art (and Chaos) of Pizza-Making

The setup was simple. Bowls of San Marzano tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil, olive oil, and a whole lot of dough just waiting to be shaped.

Ivano didn’t waste time with long explanations. He tossed a ball of dough onto the table, stretched it out with an effortless flick of his hands, and said, “You don’t fight the dough. You listen to it.”

Easier said than done.

Someone’s dough tore in half. Another’s ended up stretched so thin it was practically see-through. One person somehow got it stuck to their elbow. Hands were flying, flour coated everything, and Ivano? He just laughed, shaking his head while stretching his own dough like it was second nature.

Watching a Master At Work

While we fumbled through our dough dilemmas, Ivano moved like an artist in his element—spreading sauce, layering toppings, sliding pizzas into the wood-fired oven set up outside under our wooden space. He worked fast, but never rushed. A flick of his wrist, a dusting of flour, a drizzle of olive oil—all muscle memory, all instinct. He wasn’t making pizza. He was shaping something alive.

The smell of burning wood filled the air, blending with the sweetness of the tomatoes and the smokiness of the rising crusts. “You taste with your nose first,” he said as he pulled out another perfectly charred pizza. And he was right—the smell alone was enough to make us pause mid-conversation.

Then came the first bite.

Crispy on the outside, soft in the center, with that perfect wood-fired char—the kind of bite that makes you close your eyes for a second.

More Than Just Food

By the end of the night, there was flour everywhere, misshapen pizzas that we all pretended looked great, and nothing but empty plates left behind. But what made this special wasn’t the pizza itself.

It was the way the night felt. No pressure, no trying to make things perfect—just a group of people, hands covered in flour, laughing over their dough disasters, waiting for their turn at the oven.

It reminded me of that night in Megève, when we had a low-key dinner and Ivano casually whipped up a simple margarita, as if he wasn’t creating something extraordinary. No fuss, no big show—just a bubbling dish that he slid onto the table like it was nothing. Then I took a bite. Simple, effortless—until it wasn’t. That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t just cook, he creates moments. And this night? This was another one of those moments you don’t plan—but never forget.