Pizza

When I was a young man I went travelling around Europe with two friends, both of whom were called Paul. I thought of adopting the name Paul for the duration of the trip myself to avoid confusion but thought better of it. In Naples we enjoyed a great tasting pizza in a tiny local restaurant where there had never been any tourists. There was a giant stone oven located in the middle of the place and the pizze it produced all came out smelling like, well pizze.
In a corner of the restaurant there was a family having dinner and their little baby kept crying all the time. Every now and then the father would put his bottle of beer to the nipper's screaming mouth and the baby would be placated by a few sips of Italian beer. The restaurant was blissfully quiet for a few moments until the bloke took the bottle away after which the lovably bambino piped up again releasing an ever increasing torrent of shouts and cries. Then the bottle would be produced again and it was still once more. Until..you get the picture. I wasn't too sure about the parenting skills demonstrated but it was certainly a slice of Napolitan couleur locale.