For 220 euros, Giuseppe Sacchetti of G Pizzas could sit in a 400-square-foot apartment near the Vatican with ten strangers. They’d sit around and learn from Gabriele Bonci, a man once dubbed the “Michelangelo of Pizza" by Vogue, who'd spent decades redefining what pizza could be.

It was 2012. At that time, Sacchetti had already spent three years chasing a feeling about food he couldn't quite prove: a specific dough texture, a flavour profile, a way of thinking about Roman food that his circles in Montreal didn’t or wouldn’t understand. He'd been running tests out of the kitchens he was working in back home, once burning through ten kilos of flour in a single weekend, testing over and over. Sacchetti recalls telling anyone who'd listen that Roman food was going to matter soon, that carbonara was going to be everywhere, and that the traditions worth paying attention to were the ones skipped over.

For 220 euros, Giuseppe Sacchetti of G Pizzas could sit in a 400-square-foot apartment near the Vatican with ten strangers. They’d sit around and learn from Gabriele Bonci, a man once dubbed the “Michelangelo of Pizza" by Vogue, who'd spent decades redefining what pizza could be.

It was 2012. At that time, Sacchetti had already spent three years chasing a feeling about food he couldn't quite prove: a specific dough texture, a flavour profile, a way of thinking about Roman food that his circles in Montreal didn’t or wouldn’t understand. He'd been running tests out of the kitchens he was working in back home, once burning through ten kilos of flour in a single weekend, testing over and over. Sacchetti recalls telling anyone who'd listen that Roman food was going to matter soon, that carbonara was going to be everywhere, and that the traditions worth paying attention to were the ones skipped over.