DELICIOUS & AUTHENTIC
AT ANGELINA'S PIZZERIA
- by T.E. Whitaker
The Laguna Canyon Road is more satisfying as an exit from Laguna Beach than an entrance. There’s a dog-off-the-leash feeling when you leave Laguna and its traffic lights and noise ordinances, pass the quaint businesses and homes along the more rustic section of the road – which always reminds me of 60s-era Southern California – and emerge onto the newer section, a two-lane, high-speed snake of concrete that’s never long enough. It’s not a challenging road, so motorcycle zen can be tough to achieve, but it’s fast with sweeping curves, so I tend to include it on my route when Irvine is my destination.
I listen to audiobooks during long rides, and recently I’d been listening to Pasta, Pane, Vino: Deep Travels Through Italy’s Food Culture, by Matt Goulding, a tremendous food writer. He divides his travels through Italy into regions, one of them being Napoli, considered by many (most?) as the birthplace of pizza.
Years ago, Napoli’s powers that be got together and devised a certification process for true Neapolitan pizza makers, to set standards for authentic pizza Napoletana. The Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana was born, and their certification, the VPN (Vera Pizza Napoletana) guarantees you’re experiencing true Neapolitan pizza when eating at one of the few restaurants in America (and around the world) sporting a VPN certification.
Angelina’s Pizzeria Napoletana in Irvine is one of them.
Located at the end of a high-dollar strip mall across the 405 from the Irvine Spectrum Center, the facade of Angelina’s Pizzeria Napoletana is elegant for a strip mall, but doesn’t scream, “Italy!” Euclid and I couldn’t find any dedicated motorcycle parking, but there were plenty of normal places to park the bikes. We sat on their covered outdoor patio, because that’s how we do it in Cali, and ordered what we’d come for – classic Margherita pizzas.
“You think you have enough protective gear?” he asked, nodding at the stacked chair next to me.
“The airbag vest enabled me—psychologically—to get on a motorcycle again,” I said. “The leather jacket goes on top of it. I still look cool.”
“That’s subject to interpretation,” he said, as the server presented us with three good-sized cubes of warm foccacia bread, along with extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
“I get the third,” Euclid said.
I prepared the EEVO and balsamic on a small plate and reached for my focaccia cube. I pulled it apart to maximize its dipping potential, and the pulling-apart process bordered on erotic. It didn’t give right away. Instead, the bread stretched before separating, its bits clinging to one another desperately before giving way with a satisfying spring.
“These are fantastic,” I said.
Euclid nodded. “This is a monumental moment. We agree.”
“We don’t usually agree?” I said, my mind transitioning from the focaccia cubes to full pizza-expectation mode. VPN-certified pizza is baked for 60-90 seconds at 900 degrees, so I figured our wait would be short. “We agree about important things. Honesty. Integrity. Good parenting. A woman’s obligation to cook five-star meals at the end of a long ride.”
He snatched the third cube. “Sure. But we typically disagree on motorcycle things.”
“We do? Only safety gear. You’re a dice-roller. I’m not. And I guess we disagree on the color of my imminent Ducati.
“Old versus new, colors, gear. While your style may be more mainstream, your safety requirements are in the small minority.”
I drank some water. “Mainstream because I wear a real helmet?”
“Mainstream because you wear jeans and do not look like you’re fifty pounds heavier than you really are in pictures.”
The pizza arrived. A blistered crust from the 900-degree wood-fire oven was the first thing I noticed. And that’s appropriate, given that tremendous pizza is tremendous because of its crust. The blistering lends the crust subtle flashes of bitterness, which fulfills one of our five main tastes.
“Are you still whining about that photo of you with those guys in which you look a little… substantial?” You need to let go of that, man.”
Last week Euclid had sent me a photo from a weekend ride, and compared to his brother and friends he looked—How shall I say it?—rotund. Which he is not. “It’s the baggy pants. That’s what’s doing it in your photos. Wear something other than blue Dockers/Dickies and you’d slim right down.”
“Listen, I’m not arguing about whether you should wear all of the safety gear,” he started.
“Oh, we’re arguin’, pal.”
“Ha ha. I’m just pointing out that it’s different than ninety-nine percent of riders. I don’t care. Everyone else in our group does, but I don’t.” He tried to hide a smirk by not looking up from his pizza.
Angelina’s authentic pizza Napoletana is thin beneath the ingredients – not crispy, but soft and invites folding – with just enough San Marzano sauce to present a legitimate argument against crust’s #1 ranking. The dough is simple like all great breads, but the thin sauce is complex – subtly sweet, tangy, rich.
“I’m pretty sure everyone is fine with my air bag vest and vastly superior full-face helmet.”
“And I’m pretty sure they think you’re a pussy. He glanced at his Shovelhead in the parking lot. “If it wasn’t for the paint blemish on the tank, that bike could be show quality.”
“Can you fix the blemish?”
“Not without repainting.”
“Maybe unsubscribe from Pornhub Premium and use the money you save to fund the re-paint,” I suggested.
“Isn’t it better to cut back on something less essential? Like prescription medication?”
Back to the pizza. Angelina’s Pizzeria uses DOC (Denominazione di origine controllata – “Controlled designation of origin”) buffalo mozzarella, as authentic as it comes, but on a pizza with crust and sauce this good, the cheese placed a distant third in the flavor category. Texturally, it was wonderful, but unlike some greasy delivery pizzas, the cheese on my Margherita is not the taste I’ll remember.
The basil completed the Italian flag look, but to me it was an afterthought. I could have lived without it. But I didn’t pick it off because I’m not a barbarian.
In between bites, Euclid said, “I’m going to my mother’s tomorrow for Thanksgiving. I feel like I’m walking the Green Mile.”
“Why? Do you feel in danger with corona?”
“No, her lack of football on TV.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s no good.”
“Goldie’s riding with us Friday, too. Do you want to swing by his place first or both of you meet at my garage?”
“Just meet at your place. That’s too many legs of the journey for me otherwise.”
“Okay. We’ll meet there at 11:30.”
I stared at a phone notification while eating. Were there a mirror, I would have seen something like betrayal passing across my face. “They’ve canceled the Steelers-Ravens game.”
Euclid’s mood darkened. “Combined with my mother’s, now there’s no football for me to fucking watch on TV.”
“Yeah.” Gloom settled over the outdoor patio. “Fuck the NFL and their fucking protocols. Get those fuckers on the fucking field.”
Soon the panna cotta all’arancio arrived. A gorgeous plate with a firm, jiggling centerpiece of fresh orange panna cotta, surrounded by house made berry jam and candied walnuts, and accented with orange zest and mint, it was a nice bit of food porn to finish your meal.
The jam was marvelous – I imagined the PB&J sandwich I could put together with the jam, the pizza crust, and whatever the greatest peanut butter on earth might be – and had a more subtle taste than the panna cotta, which exploded with the flavor of a Michelin-starred creamsicle, were there such a thing.
Was there?
Before the server left, I ordered their cocoaccino. I rarely order coffee drinks with Nutella, because they’re often (always?) a disappointment. But I did anyway, because everything else at Angelina’s Pizzeria had been so good.
“Nutella never melts in coffee the way you want it to,” Euclid said.
“I know. But I appreciate the name of it. Cocoaccino.”
The cocoaccino arrived as Euclid’s phone buzzed. He stared at it, closed his eyes, checked the screen again. “Fuck UPS,” he said. “My parts are not arriving until Monday. My sole plan Friday was to finish the bike.”
I tried the cocoaccino. And let me tell you: Angelina’s has figured out The Great Nutella Coffee Drink Problem.
Instead of trying to melt Nutella, Angelina’s Pizzeria Napoletana accepted Nutella’s shortcoming and coated the cup’s rim and inside with the chocolate hazelnut wonder. As with all Nutella drinks, there was a slight chocolate taste to the coffee, but it’s never enough. But once I figured out the purpose of this cappuccino was to simply finish it so I could get to the good stuff, everything fell into place.
With the cocoaccino, my reward arrived once I’d completed the coffee portion of my program: a perfect amount of warm, melting, cappuccino-infused Nutella. I ate it with the demitasse spoon, sat back and thought, “E ora posso guidare la mia moto!”
Happy with my drink’s exquisite finish, I said, “Your weekend’s falling apart. At least you have your cats.”
Euclid glared at me, humorless. “This is one of the few four-day weekends of the year. Now there’s no football and I can’t put together the bike. God hates me.”
“Probably because of your lack of morals in your younger years.”
Slowly he nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. But I did something to offend whoever’s in charge of my life.”
We paid the check and headed for the motorcycles.
“The gurus say you’re in charge.”
“Those guys are assholes.”
I frowned. “You realize, of course, that I wrote a book about finding the meaning and purpose of your life, right? So, technically, I’m a guru.”
“I read your book,” he began.
“You did?”
“Yes. I don’t tell you everything about every minute of every day.”
“Well, fuck you for that,” I said. “I thought we were close.”
“Close enough for my comfort,” he said as we put on our gear. “You said in your book, specifically, that you’re not a guru.”
“Before Tony Robbins, may I add.”
He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t referring to you. So stow your indignation.”
“I’m just stoked you read my book. You want to go over anything? Maybe work through some issues and get your life back on track?”
“My life’s fine,” he said.
“Maybe you’re too close to your own life to see what a disaster it is.”
Euclid swung a leg over the Shovelhead. “You’re forgetting your own advice. When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”
I threw on my leather jacket. “That’s a quote I quoted in my book.”
“Either way, the student isn’t ready.”
I grinned and pulled on my helmet. “Maybe he just doesn’t know he’s ready.”
Euclid pointed to his helmet, pretending he couldn’t hear me, and we fired up the bikes.
ANGELINA’S PIZZERIA NAPOLETANA
8573 Irvine Center Drive
Irvine, CA 92618
angelinaspizzeria.com
(949) 536-5200
RATINGS
Ride: 3/5
Food: 5/5
Coffee: 4/5
Bike Parking: 4/5
Biker “Fit-in” Factor: 4/5
