But Dough had us duped. Liles admits they have yet to even start the process. That's why no certificate is visible in the Preston Hollow restaurant. And you can tell by the pies themselves: None of the four pizzas I tried over two visits should meet the VPN standards.
The crusts were pliable and soft, just as they should be, but the texture was off. The exterior was blistered and blackened but the inside was doughy, dense and too moist. The center of each pizza was too thick. The slices stood at attention when I held them. There was no droop, a signature of Neapoletan pies.
Sara Kerens
Pizza chef Robert Proehl shows off Dough's dough.
Sara Kerens
Details
Dough Pizzeria Napoletana
Pork Love $20
Marghertita STG $20
Fontina $16
Antipasto $18
Autumn Burrata $14
Nonna’s Salad $9
Roasted Olives $9
Related Content
More About
The toppings were wonderful, save for the overbearing truffle oil on the arugula and proscuitto pizza. (Attention chefs: Please back away from the truffle oil.) A Fontina pizza makes use of earthy mushrooms that play nicely off the nutty melted cheese.
An antipasto plate was loaded with cured meats, oven-roasted vegetables, cheeses and, on my visit, a grape mostarda. Not grape tomatoes, but grapes. The sweet and tangy condiment disappeared in seconds.
Salads were certificate-worthy, too, especially a simple plate of romaine hearts dressed with a squeeze of lemon and topped with three dollops of sweet fresh ricotta. Capers, tomatoes and onions added depth to the dish without taking away from its simplicity. It was perfect.
The burrata, not quite. Stiff and dry, the cheese resembled nothing of the creamy, soft decadence the name invokes, and butternut squash, mushrooms and sage added noise instead of complementing the cheese. True buratta needs nothing more than itself to shine.
It's that same lack of restraint that haunts pizzas like "pork love," topped with so much meat it borders on obnoxious. Perfect Neapolitan pizza should be almost as light as air; this was heavy eating that left me bloated and questioning my sterling pizza-intake credentials.
The problem is in Dough's proofing process, the stage where the dough balls expand and mature. The VPN recommends a room temperature proof; the Preston Hollow location ferments its dough under refrigeration, a process that requires less supervision by the kitchen. Cold proofing is easier than that done at ambient temperatures, which can be unpredictable.
Refrigerated dough requires more yeast, which makes it harder to control when it comes to room temperature before going into the oven. If it sits out too long it takes off, expanding and becoming unmanageable. If it stays cool it doesn't cook as nicely in the oven. The outsides blister but the insides don't come to temperature. Water inside the dough doesn't have time to boil and steam away, and you're left with the dense crust I ate at Dough rather than the light, airy versions I coveted back in Italy.
In a document summarizing the history of the VPN, Antonio Pace, who started the movement, says "the pizza secret lies all in the dough rising." He describes the delicate balance of water, ambient humidity, ambient temperature, salt and yeast. Making dough in the summer is different from making dough in the fall. Making dough in Naples is different from making dough in Dallas. As Pace puts it, "You can standardize the process, but it is the experience that refines the art."
In other words, even if Dough did have a VPN certificate hanging on the wall of its Preston Hollow location, the pizza still might come up short. The experience Pace refers to can't be absorbed in the short 21-hour classes taught by the American chapter of the VPN in Marina del Rey, California. Like master bakers and other culinary artisans, the art of making bread, and making it well, takes years of hands-on experience and constant exposure to perfect examples of the craft. In Naples, a young pizzaiolo can walk across the street for mentoring. In Dallas, he's plugging "pizza proofing" into YouTube.
Dough's San Antonio store may very well be a shining example of the Neapolitan pizza-making. The Horns have to be doing something right to earn the attention of the Food Network, Texas Monthly, Food and Wine and the other glossies that have flocked to their shop. But in Dallas, at least for now, something is lost in translation. Neapolitan pizza isn't a process you can stamp out, feed with investors and watch flourish. This is slow food, and it must grow slowly.
