The global history of pizza

You can argue about toppings. You can argue about crust. You can even argue about whether a calzone counts. But there’s one thing that’s not up for debate: pizza has conquered the world—and picked up a few identity crises along the way. From ancient flatbreads to Domino’s delivery, from royal kitchens to Reddit polls about pineapple, pizza isn’t just food. It’s a cultural weather vane. It tells us who we were, who we are, and who we’re pretending to be. So yes, it’s delicious. But it’s also revealing.

What’s strange about pizza is that it feels both personal and universal. The pizza you grew up with—cut into squares at a school cafeteria, sold by the slice on a street corner, or delivered in a sweaty box to your dorm—is probably not the same pizza your grandparents knew. And yet, everyone calls it the same name. Pizza.

That sameness across difference is what makes it special. It’s not bound by authenticity in the way sushi or kimchi might be. It thrives on remix, on rule-breaking, on being the thing that’s just familiar enough to crave—but flexible enough to claim. Pizza doesn’t care where you’re from. But it will always tell you something about where you are.

The birthplace of pizza depends entirely on how you define it. If pizza is bread + topping, then the roots go way back—like 6th century BCE back. Persian soldiers baked flatbreads on their shields and topped them with cheese and dates. The Greeks had plakous. The Romans, panis focacius. These early versions were basic, sure. But they prove that the instinct to put good stuff on bread is practically human nature.

But if you're talking pizza as we know it—sauce, cheese, crust, maybe a smug sense of superiority—it begins in Naples.

In 18th century Naples, pizza was poor people’s food. Street vendors sold flatbreads topped with cheap ingredients: garlic, anchovies, sometimes cheese. Tomatoes had only recently made it to Europe from the Americas and were still rumored to be poisonous. But the working class in Naples embraced them. And with that, the tomato-based pizza began its rise. By the late 1700s, "pizolas" were official professions. That’s how embedded the dish had become. Not just a snack—an identity.

Enter Margherita of Savoy. Or at least the myth. In 1889, she visited Naples and allegedly wanted to try what the people were eating. The pizza guy (Raffaele Esposito, because every cultural pivot needs a protagonist) made her three versions. One had garlic. One had anchovies. The third had tomato, mozzarella, and basil—red, white, and green. It won her heart. He named it after her. PR magic before PR was a job.

Was it true? Who knows. The plaque is still up outside Pizzeria Brandi in Naples, proudly declaring the birthplace of the Margherita pizza. History and branding often share a kitchen. What matters more is what it did: it legitimized pizza. It moved from street food to national pride. A poor man’s lunch became royal-approved.

Like many immigrants, pizza arrived in America with its name intact but its identity up for grabs. By the early 1900s, pizza had touched down in the US through Italian immigrant communities. New York. New Haven. Chicago. Even Racine, Wisconsin. But it stayed mostly local, ethnic, niche. Then came the war. American soldiers stationed in Italy got hooked on pizza and brought the craving home. Enter the postwar pizza boom—and the American remixes.

New York gave us the foldable slice. Chicago gave us deep dish (cue the lifelong debate). California added goat cheese and arugula. Everyone claimed their version was the real one. The only thing they agreed on? That pineapple was suspect. Lombardi’s in Manhattan is often credited as the first licensed US pizzeria in 1905. But food historian Peter Regas says Brooklyn may have had the real firsts—just without the paperwork. Either way, New York became pizza’s American HQ.

Let’s be clear: pepperoni is not Italian. It’s American. And not even old-school Italian-American. The sausage itself was made industrially in New York starting in the early 1900s. But it didn’t become a popular topping until the 1950s, when a New Haven shop added it to a pie. Still, it was niche. The real breakout came later—with mass production and a cartoon turtle army.

In the 1980s, Domino’s began using Ezzo pepperoni, making it a mainstream staple. Add the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ obsession with pizza, and you had a generation of kids growing up thinking pepperoni was the default. Today, nearly half of all pizzas ordered in the US come topped with pepperoni. A meat no Italian would recognize on a pizza has become America’s signature. Welcome to the remix era.

No pizza topping sparks fights quite like pineapple. But the story of Hawaiian pizza is even weirder than the taste. It’s not from Hawaii. It’s not even from the US. The most widely accepted origin story credits Sam Panopoulos, a Greek-born Canadian who added canned pineapple to pizza at his Ontario restaurant in 1962. He called it “Hawaiian” because that was the brand of the canned pineapple he used.

But wait: a 1957 menu from a place called Francine’s Pizza Jungle in Oregon advertised a Hawaiian pizza topped with pineapple, papaya, and green peppers. No ham, but the idea was already fermenting. So who invented Hawaiian pizza? Canada or Oregon? It depends on your criteria—and how much ham is required for something to “count.” Either way, it reminds us that food isn’t fixed. It’s argued over, misattributed, reinterpreted, and still devoured.

There’s a reason pizza is the most beloved food in the world (yes, even more than noodles or chocolate). It’s not just the cheese. It’s the structure. Pizza is flexible. It can be shared or solo. Cheap or gourmet. Eaten hot or cold. Folded, forked, or devoured standing up. It adapts to diet (vegan cheese, gluten-free crust) and context (school lunch, date night, 2 a.m. regret meal).

But more than that, it’s comforting. Not in a vague way—in a repeatable, deeply programmed way. It’s the food you eat when you want to feel like yourself again. Or when you want to not feel anything at all. It’s also global. You’ll find pizza in Tokyo topped with mayonnaise and squid. In Sweden with banana and curry. In Brazil, green peas are a popular topping. In India, it’s paneer and tandoori chicken. Pizza doesn’t travel—it assimilates.

And somehow, that global remixability hasn’t diluted its identity. It’s only made it more powerful.

We treat pizza like a battleground—regional loyalty, topping debates, authenticity wars. But what it really reveals is this: we crave food that lets us argue without consequence. Pizza is safe conflict. It’s also safe comfort. And maybe that’s why it endures. The story of pizza is about migration, class, creativity, and contradiction. It’s about how something humble becomes holy. About how nostalgia can be boxed, sliced, and delivered in 30 minutes or less.

Pizza gives us permission. To customize. To break rules. To share or not share. To indulge without apology. It's one of the few foods that resists preciousness—nobody gatekeeps pizza with tweezers or foam. You can find it in Michelin-starred kitchens and gas station freezer aisles, and both feel valid.

And maybe that’s why pizza makes us feel so strongly. Because it reminds us that culture doesn’t have to be rigid. That something can be rooted and still roam. That your comfort food and my comfort food can look nothing alike—and still be the same thing. Whether you fold it, fork it, or eat it cold for breakfast, pizza adapts. Not just to taste, but to context. It’s not just a dish. It’s a mood board. A memory. A mirror. And we keep reaching for it because, in some way, it keeps reaching back.