Ishfaque Kamal
Google
Let me start by saying: I’m from New York. The city that bleeds marinara, sweats mozzarella, and argues over pizza the way philosophers argue over God. We pride ourselves on the slice—the crisp fold, the street corner aroma, the no-bullshit perfection of dough, sauce, cheese, and attitude. So when I say a pizza is good, I mean it broke through a very thick, very stubborn crust of bias.
Now, I’ve been living in Europe for the past three years. That’s three years of dodging dry crusts in Germany, frozen pizzas pretending to be artisanal in France, and disappointing "Italian-style" pizzas that taste like heartbreak with a sprinkle of oregano.
Then I walked into Antico Forno in Venice. And holy hell.
This place is not just a pizzeria. It’s a cathedral of dough. A fusion altar where Chicago’s unapologetic deep-dish heft meets the soul of Italian culinary craftsmanship. It shouldn’t work. But it does. It works like Coltrane on a good day—chaotic, beautiful, and absolutely unforgettable.
The crust is thick but not overwhelming. It’s got that crunch on the outside, softness on the inside—a carb symphony. The sauce? Bright, balanced, acidic in that sun-ripened way only Italy seems to know. The cheese doesn’t just melt—it melds. It pulls at your soul the way it pulls from the slice, all gooey and glorious. And the toppings? Real. Fresh. Generous. The kind of ingredients that don’t need to be loud, because they already know who they are.
In a city drowning in overpriced mediocrity and soulless tourist traps, Antico Forno is a goddamn lighthouse.
It was, without question, the best part of my trip to Venice.
So to the team at Antico: from the bottom of my pizza-snob New Yorker heart, thank you. You gave me something I wasn’t expecting—a slice of joy, a taste of home, and a memory I’ll carry longer than any gondola ride or overpriced spritz.
Grazie mille and shout out to my desi crew! Especially, the beautiful and charming, Shazia♥️ 🇮🇹 🍕