* Illustration: Martin Venezky * It costs $482.79 to get a decent pizza in San Francisco — $17 for the pie, $85 for cab fare, and $378.80 for the flight to New York. Throw in $1.99 for tinfoil. I wrap each slice individually to protect the toppings and maximize what I can fit inside a regulation-size carry-on: six pies' worth of triangular packets, arranged in an alternating pattern to create rectangular layers. The bag attracts some attention at airport security. Apparently, 48 interlocking aluminum-wrapped triangles are easy to mistake for an IED.

Pizza may have been invented in Italy, but it was perfected in New York City. And whenever I go home to visit, I return with a sizable doggy bag from Arturo's in Greenwich Village. That's because the pizza in San Francisco sucks: flaccid crust baked in positive energy, its cheese and tomato sauce buried under bushels of organic artichokes and salad greens. Even when you can track down an unadorned pie — the pure, ideal form — it just doesn't taste right.

"Californians do a lot of great stuff with their green-market goods," fellow pizza nerd Mario Batali says, but "some of it's just not pizza." I called the Iron Chef to help me figure out why San Francisco — a formidable food town — can't birth a respectable pie. Part of the reason, of course, is that while Rice-A-Roni and zinfandel are native to Northern California, pizza is not.

"New York has a grand tradition of pizza making and holds it dear," Batali says. Which means institutions like Arturo's have been using the same equipment for decades. "An oven captures the gestalt of beautifully cooked pizza. And it imparts that."

I'm not comfortable attributing a pizza's quality to gestalt — it sounds like something a California pizzeria would list as a topping. But Batali's theory makes sense to David Tisi, a food-development consultant who has spent much of his career studying pizza.

"As you cook, some ingredients vaporize, and these volatilized particles can attach themselves to the walls of the baking cavity," Tisi says. "The next time you use the oven, these bits get caught up in the convection currents and deposited on the food, which adds flavor." Over time, he says, more particles join the mix and mingle with the savory soot from burned wood or coal — the only fuels worth using — to create a flavor that you can't grow in a garden: gestalt, if you will.

That explains why the only San Francisco pizza I can tolerate is from Tommaso's, a restaurant whose wood-fired oven has been crackling since 1935. Still, there's something off with the crust.

"Water," Batali says. "Water is huge. It's probably one of California's biggest problems with pizza." Water binds the dough's few ingredients. Nearly every chemical reaction that produces flavor occurs in water, says Chris Loss, a food scientist with the Culinary Institute of America. "So, naturally, the minerals and chemicals in it will affect every aspect of the way something tastes."

Batali himself encounters the water problem at his upscale New York restaurant Del Posto, where he makes traditional Italian food. The tap water in Manhattan is far different from that of the motherland. His solution: create his own mineral-water composite. Working from a chemical analysis of l'acqua italiana, Batali's team basically clones the H 2 O that gives the food in Italy its — well, its gestalt. He plans to do this at Pizzeria Mozza in LA, but the joint's Italian-style pie is too lightweight for my taste. Which means I'm still waiting for some other enterprising chef to deliver my New York pizza fantasies to the Left Coast. Hint, hint.

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