Before he died when I was a year old, my father was the proprietor of Gioia’s Pizzeria in the town of Batavia, New York. His partners were his younger brother Dick and nephew Ronnie.
circa 1958
Of course, because of my age I never tasted his pizza, and perhaps was never taken to his restaurant. I know the general location of where it was located but have not tried to find it. Maybe that will be something to do next time I visit my hometown.
After his death I don’t know what became of the business. Did the brother and nephew keep it open? I doubt it. Batavia was and still is, a small town and because of what my father did to cause my mother’s and his own demise, I’m sure no one would have patronized Gioia’s Pizzeria. The nephew’s daughter, my second cousin, opened her own pizza restaurant in another state and from what I understand, used the original Gioia pizza dough recipe. When I finally met her when in my forties, I asked for the recipe, and it was given to me.
It was a bulk recipe, making thirteen doughs at a time, so I rarely used it. Since then, I’ve created my own dough recipe after learning to make Levita Madre, a low hydration sourdough version. I’m having success with a flavorful, thin crust, just how my family likes it.
When I am shaping the dough, trying to gently stretch it evenly in order to add toppings, I find the skill challenging. I think about the pizza makers I’ve seen on television, in movies and in authentic Italian restaurants. They toss the dough high, stretching it when it makes contact with their fisted hands. Yes, I’ve tried the method and am woefully inadequate. Which brings me to think about my father, a man I never knew but whose presence lives deep within my subconscious and who makes himself known unbidden and unexpected.
When I make pizza, I wonder: did my father have that skill? Did he impress customers by throwing his dough into the air, stretching, and shaping with hands balled into fists? If so, where did he learn to do it? If not, did he feel he was shortchanging his ancestry?
These questions and so many more are ones I wish with all my heart I could ask the man that fathered me. Throughout my life I have been instructed to let the past go, stop obsessing about it and move on. I have moved on, but as anyone who has mourned the passing of someone must admit, moving on is one thing, forgetting yet another. It’s the little things, like making pizza, that bring up thoughts and memories, even if, like me, I never knew the person I’m desperately missing and mourning.
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