Michele Pascarella: The world’s best pizza chef on success, burnout and breaking the rules

The night Michele Pascarella became the world’s best pizza chef, he was utterly unprepared. The judges of 50 Top Pizza – the Michelin Guide of the pizza world – had visited his restaurant, Napoli on the Road, in secret. He’d had no clue. Then, an invitation arrived: an awards ceremony in Naples. He went, assuming a ranking, maybe a commendation. Instead, they called his name. Best Pizza Maker in the World. Number one. The man from Maddaloni who, just a decade earlier, had been selling pizzas from a three-wheeled Piaggio truck, suddenly found himself at the very top of his industry.

“Honestly, I couldn’t believe it. I never expected it,” he says. “I’ve learnt that the most beautiful things often happen when you’re completely focused with work, with no expectations, just trying to do something good, something meaningful.”

It wasn’t just a nice trophy – it was a game-changing moment, a cosmic shift in his life, his business and his future. “That night, there were some of the best pizzaiolos in the world in that room, and they called my name,” he says, still astounded. “Even now, two years later, I still haven’t fully realised what it means.”

Before the win, Napoli on the Road had already made waves. The Chiswick and Richmond pizzerias had gained a cult following, regularly cited as two of London’s best. His approach – strict about seasonality, obsessive about dough, a purist in many ways but a rule-breaker in others – had drawn attention from critics and pizza obsessives alike. But after 50 Top Pizza? The demand became astronomical. “It was unbelievable. After the award, we literally had to turn off the phones for about nine months. We just weren’t, and couldn’t be, prepared for that kind of demand. Our booking system was showing 2,500 to 3,000 requests every single day, meaning that something like 10,000 people everyday wanted to come. It was amazing.”

Success, though, is never just a blessing. It is pressure too – a weight to carry. A title like Best Pizza Maker in the World doesn’t just mean more customers, it means expectation, scrutiny, the knowledge that every pizza you send out the kitchen now comes with an invisible plaque attached. “You have to work every single day to live up to expectations, to motivate your staff, to carry something that only a few people in life experience,” he says. “It’s not easy.”

The weight of it all became too much. The pressure of the title, the endless demands, the shifting landscape of friendships, the sudden and overwhelming intensity of it all. “For a long time, I completely neglected my personal life. People who used to be friends suddenly weren’t anymore. I was overwhelmed by fake friendships, thousands of messages and requests. I had never experienced anything like it.” He turned to therapy – something, he says, that ultimately saved him. “It was the best decision I could have made. It helped me understand myself, breathe again and find clarity. Now, two years later, I feel like a better person. I’m stronger, more grounded and now I feel ready – ready for new things, new challenges and finally, to really enjoy the journey.”

That journey began in Maddaloni, near Naples, where he grew up in a working-class family where food was more than just sustenance – it was nostalgia, ritual, love. “Out of necessity, I started working when I was just 11 years old. Life wasn’t easy, but despite that, the memories of food and family have always stayed with me and shaped something deep inside me, a strong emotional connection between food, love and togetherness,” he says.

His memories of big family lunches – of his parents and grandparents sitting around the table, the noise, the laughter – have stayed with him.

But the dish that lives in his heart is Sunday Neapolitan ragù. “I remember my mother waking up at 4am to start cooking it, letting it simmer slowly for eight or even 10 hours,” he says. “I used to come home late from work and in the morning, still half asleep, I’d sneak into the kitchen, smell that incredible scent, and dip a piece of bread into the ragù, secretly, before anyone else woke up. That moment, it’s unforgettable.”

That dish is now immortalised in his debut cookbook, Napoli on the Road, as “Ricordi d’Infanzia” (Childhood Memories) – a Neapolitan-style pizza with slow-cooked beef ragù, aged Parmigiano fondue and fresh basil. “Because it’s not just a flavour, it’s a feeling. It’s a tribute to those Sundays at home, those family tables, those memories that made me fall in love with food, even before I realised it.”

His early years in Naples should have been the perfect training ground for a career in pizza. Instead, he found himself locked out of the secrets of the trade. “When I started out, it was really difficult to learn. Many pizzaiolos were extremely protective of their techniques, almost like it was a family secret,” Pascarella says. “You’d often hear ‘this is how we’ve always done it’, but no one would explain why.”

For Pascarella, this secrecy wasn’t just about tradition – it was about fear. “I think it came from a mix of tradition and fear – fear of change, of being outdone. But for me, knowledge is something to be shared, not hidden. That’s how you keep tradition alive, by allowing it to evolve and to reach more people.”

Frustrated by this closed-door culture, he left Italy at 19 for a stint in London. The plan was temporary. Instead, he found himself surrounded by “fake Italian restaurants” (“The truth is, many Italian restaurants, even in London, don’t serve authentic Italian cuisine”) and an approach to pizza that, to some, might feel chaotic. The UK’s love for unconventional toppings – pineapple, chicken, the overloaded “meat feast” – sparked a wider question.

“I’m not against pineapple because it’s different, I’m against it when it’s just thrown on top without care, without asking if it really works in that context,” he says. “It’s not about rules, it’s about intention.”

For Pascarella, experimentation is welcome – but only if it has meaning. “I’m not against creativity, in fact I love experimenting. But for me, there’s a big difference between being creative and being chaotic. Creativity is about balance, about thinking deeply about flavours, textures, and how ingredients can complement each other. Chaos is just putting things together for shock value, without meaning.”

His pizzas – topped with buffalo ricotta and spicy ’nduja, slow-cooked Genovese-style onions, or smoked provola with anchovy butter – push boundaries, but always with purpose. “When I use something like blue Stilton or cherry tomato jam, it’s not random. There’s thought behind it. I ask myself, what does it bring to the pizza? What emotion, what contrast, what balance of sweetness, acidity, umami?”

His biggest frustration? Innovation for the sake of it. “You can push boundaries, but you have to know why you’re doing it. Otherwise, it’s not innovation, it’s confusion.”

But things have changed. “I completely fell in love with London,” says Pascarella. “For me, it’s the most beautiful city in the world.” Much to the chagrin of his Italian counterparts and fellow pizzaiolos, I’m sure. “I have to say, in the last few years I’ve seen a huge change. There’s much more curiosity, awareness and even expertise from British people. They really want to learn, to understand the real culture behind Italian food, and that’s something I truly respect and appreciate.”

Even British pizza has changed. “People think London isn’t a pizza city, but I actually believe it’s one of the most exciting stages in the world for pizza today,” he says. “There’s so much energy, creativity, diversity, and I think in the next few years it will become even more important … Trends come and go, but good things stay.”

London transformed him. Rather than run from it, he built something new. Napoli on the Road wasn’t just a restaurant – it was a statement of intent. Every pizza made with real ingredients, seasonal produce and impeccable dough. Every menu changing every three months, rejecting the standard static pizzeria model.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t accept there should be an order to these things, but he’s not focused on the technicalities. No, it’s the values behind the pizza. “For me, the first rule [of pizza] would be: use real, seasonal, high-quality ingredients, and respect them. Not just any tomato or cheese, but the ones that really have a story, that come from the land and respect who we are,” Pascarella says. “The second: keep it simple. You don’t need too many things on a pizza. A few ingredients, but chosen with care, can say so much more than a long list.” And the third? “Everything should be thoughtful. Innovation is beautiful, but only if it makes sense, if it adds meaning. Pizza doesn’t need to be a show, it needs to be honest and full of flavour.”

His cookbook isn’t just about pizza, either. It’s about something deeper – the feeling of gathering around a table, of food as connection. “When people come to eat in my pizzeria, I always try to give them a full experience, not just pizza, but also some fritti, a few antipasti, a dessert, maybe a drink,” Pascarella says. “So I didn’t want the book to be only about pizza. I wanted people to have the chance to recreate that same feeling at home.”

More than anything, he wants to bring people back to the way pizza was meant to be experienced. “That’s one of the main reasons I wanted to write this book. Not to turn everyone into a professional pizzaiolo, that’s a different beast. But to bring people back to the kind of pizza our mothers or grandparents used to make, imperfect maybe, but full of warmth, of memories, of connection. Making pizza at home isn’t about chasing perfection; it’s about being together, around a table, sharing something simple and beautiful. That’s the real heart of pizza.”

Technique matters, of course – but home cooks often get too caught up in the details. “The biggest mistake is trying to rush the process. Great pizza takes time, especially when it comes to dough. People often underestimate how important fermentation is. They want results too quickly, but the dough needs time to develop flavour, texture and lightness.” The other mistake? Overcomplicating things. “Less is more. Good pizza doesn’t need 10 toppings, it needs a few great ones that work well together.” And most importantly, don’t get discouraged if it’s not perfect. “The more love and patience you put in, the more it will come through.”

And for those worried that they’ll never achieve restaurant-quality pizza without a 375C wood-fired oven, he has a trick. “The real secret is not the oven, it’s the dough,” he insists. “If you get the dough right, everything else follows.” You’ll have to buy the book to learn the secret, but if you want to improve your home setup, “invest in a good pizza stone and a pizza peel. You don’t need fancy gadgets … just the right technique, the right ingredients and patience.”

Two years after being crowned the world’s best, Pascarella is finally ready to take a breath. For a long time, he was consumed by proving himself. Now, the hunger is still there, but it’s different. More measured. More intentional. The award “was an incredible honour and also a big responsibility,” he says. “It’s a reminder to keep growing, to keep improving.”

And always remember: “Pizza, for me, is like a classic suit – it never goes out of style.”