Historical debates about pizza past: Were tomatoes once the pineapple of today?

“Pineapple On Pizza.” That could be a syrupy love song. Or a punk protest song. Or both. Is there any more discordant and divisive topic around pizza than this intense and pointless debate? But get ready. I have a controversial opinion of equal pointlessness that you will not care about. 
 
Our beloved tomato, that key pizza ingredient for the contemporary masses, was once the pineapple of its time.
 
The history of the tomato in European cuisine is well known: brought to Europe from South America in the 1500s, nobody would eat it. Ever. The tomato was primarily a decorative plant. That lasted for about 200 years because the tomato was “known” to be dangerous.
 
To borrow a quote from the Neapolitan historian, Antonio Mottozzi (author of Inventing The Pizzeria), “it had been long believed to be poisonous (not to mention an aphrodisiac). These were twin reasons for banning the tomato.”

And in fact, the tomato comes from the Solanaceae family of plants, which includes everyone’s favorite poisonous plants, such as deadly nightshade (AKA belladonna), the hallucinogenic and narcotic mandrake, and [GASP!] eggplant.
 
Granted, the acidity of tomatoes when combined with the pewter dinner plates of the time meant potential lead poisoning for all your dinner guests. Yay! So there’s an actual poison problem that, at first blush, might condemn the tomato to deadly status.
 
Now, the dreaded eggplant had its own problems. Around Europe a lot longer than the tomato as a culinary treat via Asia, eggplant was “known” to cause of insanity. Also, its flowers can actually be deadly if consumed in huge quantities.
 
But ultimately, no actual insanity.
 
The actual insanity seems reserved for our times and those who become unhinged at hearing the words “pineapple” and “pizza” uttered together in a sentence.
 
Yet pineapple maintains its presence on many Top 10 lists of favorite pizza toppings. And in their time, tomatoes seemed to have been doing something similar in Italy once they were let out of pizza-topping jail. People in Italy came to love the tomato very quickly.
 
Today, some people love their pineapple pizza. Of course, others treat it as poison. Some pineapple pizza haters like to justify their hate by falling back on that old trope of, “I don’t like fruit in my food!"
 
That’s too bad. I’ve certainly found fruit to have its place. I still remember the first time I spontaneously whipped up a red wine and blueberry reduction for the fresh elk medallions a friend had provided. Yummy and gamey!
 
Unfortunately, there are also those who counter the no-fruit-in-my-food trope by thinking, “Aa-HA!” and then saying, “But the tomato is a fruit!”
 
If you are one of those people trying to use biology as a bludgeon, please stop it right now. Nobody cares that the tomato is a) a biological fruit, and that's because it is b) a culinary vegetable.
 
Other such culinarial vegetable fruits include bell peppers, zucchini, and [GASP!] eggplant.
 
Yes, eggplant again.
 
Technically speaking, regardless of its status in the kitchen, a “fruit” is produced by a plant, it contains seeds, and it may be eaten as food.
 
And let’s not forget the biological fruits that are also culinary fruits and which can also be put onto a pizza, including figs, pears, and peaches.
 
Isn’t it interesting how nobody even flinches at a fruit and cheese plate with bread on the side?
 
But combine the fruit and cheese on the bread and bake it, and the same people lose their Shinola.
 
They run around in circles like their hair is on fire yelling about dogs and cats living together.
 
It’s just food. And it isn’t even stinky or slimy. Well, the cheese might stink. But that’s another blog post, Monsieur Roquefort.
 
And here’s another challenge that knocks some off their pins: pizza with tomato only. No cheese at all.

ABOVE: Not exactly a marinara pizza. This is inspired by Franco Pepe's world-famous Spagliata Marinara, which means "bungled marinara," and I purposefully bungled it for someone who wanted something similar but different. But it's fun to look at. And it contains the word "marinara."


Some time ago, I learned the joy of pizza marinara. And especially if you add (look out!) anchovies, it’s a delightful umami bomb.
 
Unsurprisingly, the anchovy is the most hated of pizza toppings in the US. That’s mainly because of its abuse by renegade apathetics who dump anchovies onto a pizza and cook them into nasty fish jerky. And that has already been a whole other blog post and will be again.

ABOVE: Also not a marinara pizza. It started as one, but was attacked by some anchovies and cheese.
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Those angry-making little fishies aside, there’s another pizza-related hatred involving a bakery product in New England. It’s known as Rhode Island Pizza Strips.
 
I first heard about Pizza Strips from world renowned pizza dude Albert Grande. And while I’ve never had the original article, I baked something that I believe might pass for it. And Albert also gave it a nod after seeing the photo. It was a pan pizza that’s almost like a thin-crust focaccia, and which had a healthy layer of robust tomato sauce on top and no cheese.
 
Prepare the hate!
 
“No cheese? What is wrong with you? Cretins!”

ABOVE: A version of focaccia rossa that strikes me as possibly like Rhode Island Pizza Strips. Tomatoes only. No cheese. Just love. It was really yummy.


I’m here to tell you, just as with the pizza marinara, the focaccia rossa/pizza strip thing brings a certain joy and celebration of the tomato that is surprising and delightful.
 
And when eating the pizza strip cooled to room temp, it might even be better tasting than when it's hot from the oven. It has sweet, savory, umami, crunchy goodness and is a treat worthy of a European bakery. (Yes, I’ve eaten something very similar from a patisserie in the south of France, and it was wicked good.)
 
My guess is that the bakeries in Rhode Island are dodging potential restaurant code issues by eliminating the cheese from pizza strips. But why are people losing their Sugar Pops over this veritable pizza?
 
I’ve witnessed emotional violence against the mere idea of crusty, crunchy bread topped with bright and herby tomato sauce—a sauce that those committing the violence would otherwise celebrate when served hot and topped with cheese.
 
How small is your world my friend? Is it so tiny and threatened you may need to create a force of True American Pizza Police to protect your palate from the merest idea of threats that are, at worst, benign?
 
It’s almost as if your own dear pizza sauce has suddenly deviated into a dark and dangerous, emotional poison on the level of, say [SHUDDER] pineapple.
 
Personally, I don’t care for pineapple on pizza. That’s not because I’m against it. It’s because I don’t believe I’ve yet had the best version of it.

ABOVE: A prototype "Hawaiian" pizza I made with pineapple, serrano and Fresno chilis, and pan-fried SPAM--because if you know anything about Hawaiians, they love their SPAM. Here, the SPAM was great. The pineapple, not so much. (Yes, I know. SPAM. Cue more hate.)


And I suspect that the best version of pineapple pizza for me is not going to include tomato.
 
How’s that for irony?
 
On a relative scale, it feels like the tomato was a far more embattled fruit in its time than the pineapple ever will be. Nobody seems to think pineapple will kill them—even if they sometimes act is if it could end the world as we know it.
 
I’m not that much of a pessimist. And believe me, I’ve been to dark places and seen dark things deeper than nightshade. (And eggplant.)
 
Does the tomato deserve to be on a pedestal? I think so, if only metaphorically. Literal pedestals get in the way, they're easy to trip over and can clash with the drapes.

Does the pineapple belong on a pedestal? I don't think so. Not in the context of pizza, anyway. Tomato is part of a complex dopamine rush that makes pizza a kind of perfect drug—especially since it’s non-addictive.  (At least by the measure of addiction medicine as we know it. There was a page about this on the website at the National Institutes Of Health, but they've burned it.)
 
BUT--I have had that pedestal-worthy pineapple in a fresh-fruit margarita that spun my head around—not in the least because it contained (ready for this?):

Cilantro!
 
I recommend it. Go ahead and try to wash out my mouth with soap. (And yes, that’s a whole other blog post…)

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