Alberto Belotti

He must have been around thirty, maybe a bit older. Tall, thin, with the look of someone who doesn’t quite belong—clean sneakers, a phone always in his hand, glancing around like the street might bite him. He asked for a margherita and sat outside on the bench where the sun hits around midday. Nothing unusual about him, except he didn’t eat the pizza right away. He just looked at it for a long time, like it had a secret written on it.

After a while, he came back in, holding the box like it was fragile. He asked if I was the one who made it. I nodded, of course. He smiled and said, “My father used to bring me here every Sunday before he died.” Then he stood there silently, eyes wet but not letting anything fall.

I didn’t know what to say. I recognized his face, but it was a child’s face I remembered, not this man with a beard and worn-out eyes. I told him I was sorry, and he nodded like he expected that, but then he added, “The taste hasn't changed. Not one bit. That’s rare.”

It hit me harder than I thought it would. I’m sixty now, and for forty years I’ve been baking pizza here in Naples, Italy—in this tiny shop, a snack bar really. People often tell me to open a proper pizzeria, hire staff, make a real business out of it. I could’ve, maybe even should’ve. But I never wanted more than this. I like knowing each customer, watching the dough rise with the sun, closing when I feel like it.

My kids don’t get it. They live up north, in Milan and Bologna. They earn good money, sure, but every time they visit, they complain about how expensive life is. They call my life small. Maybe it is.

Prices have gone up, of course. Tomatoes, flour, cheese—nothing’s cheap anymore. Some regulars grumble, act like I’m cheating them. I don’t blame them. But I have no choice.

I’ll probably close the shop in a few years. Or maybe someone will take it over. That man yesterday—he said thank you twice before leaving. Maybe that’s enough legacy for me.