The Question of Signor Ciccio

They who do not know ask - 'Who is Signor Ciccio?' - and I look at them across the fire and I smile, acknowledging the education bestowed upon me and the anticipation for the journey that they will make with me at their side. You can be damn certain that I'll be at their side. I hear them ask again, and people murmur, so many of us veterans unsure how best to respond - how to answer. For how do you answer a question like that without changing their life forever?

Just outside what we call the 'village' of Norbury, a segment of South London just waiting to become undone - like loose laces on someone's high tops - like the bra of the hooker holding out her thumb - there beyond the 'village' lies the saving grace of our post code. Is Signor Ciccio the mayor you ask? An activist? Some pillar of the community? To these questions I can answer neither yes or no. It's not a man or woman, for one human could never hope to command such reverence. Not in this day and age. No. Not a chance.

Long ago we would visit Signor Ciccio. Before this pandemic erupted in our streets we would find ourselves there in person as if drawn by some invisible signal.

"It's like a call from a golden god!" I heard a friend once cry, but no, Signor Ciccio is far too humble to allow itself to be worshiped in such a way. For if it truly was a man then its form would be that of the sage who wonders through the wilderness dispensing wisdom to those who find him on the path. I find myself one of the fortunate few to know of this wisdom as one who has stumbled onto that very path.

The path to pizza.

We snap branches off the fallen tree at the back of the garden, the wooden pallet that we once used to stabilize the trunk is already long consumed by the hungry flames. We light fires in our garden now, because, well what else is there to do? What other options are available to bring that social element back into our lives? And anyway, the fire has always been a cornerstone of what makes us uniquely human - our mastery over one of the Earth's most powerful ingredients of potential. I imagine the faces of those proto-humans as they harnessed their first flame and I'm certain that the expression of wonder in their eyes would be the same as when the first man pulled the first pizza out of his oven. I know this to be true because it is the exact same expression that comes over the face of any man, woman, or child who opens a box to reveal Signor Ciccio's dream incarnate.

I remember the warmth of the oven, mere slices from where we sat - that first time - the owner's wide smile as we walked through the doors; the chef's mighty laugh. They knew. Of course they knew. We had arrived at where Signor Ciccio's dream had always come true. I was with my best friend that day. A man who understands how to order a meal. He understands that a menu must be sampled. Olives must be present, the burrata must ooze upon the plate, all starters must show their faces for it's the prelude, and the scene must be set in preparation for the main event.

We sit now in the dark, illuminated only by the dancing flames, the handsaw hard at work as some of us scale the trunk to harvest larger logs. We're all feeling the cold of the London winds and the stiff drinks alone won't sustain us. I hear the girl across from me mention the word pizza and it's like a rush. Before I can speak I'm lost in a forest of memories and all the trees are suddenly alight in flames as the passion within me burns bright.

"Pizza?"

There it was. She said it again. I open my eyes to catch the nods of agreement from those who are in the know. Like a tribe of elders. Those who have tasted wisdom. My housemate slips out his phone, the device understands as well as he does what's next, the screen is alive as his fingers race to find the menu. The menu of Signor Ciccio.

Tricolore,

Francesco,

Napoletana.

Their names cascade like the credits of a film where you know each and every actor like family. As if the film itself was a home movie, but with the production of a Hollywood blockbuster.

Diavola,

Capriciosa,

Ortolana.

No. They are the names of every lover you've ever known. Each evoking a quality that kept you entranced, that still keep you wondering late into the night whether they were 'the one'. Yet Signor Ciccio leaves you with the lesson that each flavor has its place in time, the toppings upon its base are a reflection of the transient tastes that each of us were born to experience throughout our life. Each pizza that emerges from their oven and onto your plate creates a relationship with you; each bite becomes a history that you shared.

My housemate orders the Margherita. He always does. Preferring to dance in comfort with a classic where the sourdough can sing supreme. I nod with understanding, for I've found him, many times in the year just gone, with the box resting in his lap and the unmistakable look of satisfaction across his face. The stray cat that walked into our lives and took up residence with us just stares at him, unblinking, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what is occurring. If it could talk it would surely ask, just as the girl is asking us now - "what is Signor Ciccio?"

But what it is can not be confined to the four walls in which it is housed. Like our stray cat - it is a wild thing. It finds you as you find it. Staring into its eyes on a cold Wednesday from the other side of the street, my birthday booze coursing through my system, I knew not what I was facing that day. I entered through its jaws, but I was swallowed by its heart.

What is Signor Ciccio? A fool in the dark mutters something about a pizzeria, then falls silent as he drowns in the depths of his shame. For can a pizzeria have the power to draw you out onto the dismal streets of South London and run the gauntlet across its busy roads, to arrive at its doors as mopeds swerve up and onto the pavement - to spend your hard earned cash to sit at a table and wait? Well yes. Yes it can. But Signor Ciccio delivers something special, and when the doorbell finally rings and we carry the boxes outside and take our places around the fire, and take our first bite, and take a moment to truly taste this remarkable food, we take a moment to appreciate something else - there in that moment of silence with a mouth full of sourdough, tomato, and cheese - no matter what, everything will be alright. The cat purrs by my feet. The fire crackles. And somebody asks me:

"Where is Signor Ciccio?"

When this is all over, I'll walk them through the doors myself.