I learned to love tomato pie by eating 24 versions of it

Up until a few months ago, I thought that tomato pie was simply pizza without cheese – a perverse invention. Utter madness. Why bother?

The first time I ever ordered one was this year. But over the course of tasting through dozens of examples for our tomato pie map, I fell in love with it.

And for the uninitiated (including my past self), let me first address the question: What is tomato pie?

An evolution of the Italian sfincione (which despite having lived in Italy for a year and a half, I had never heard of), a sort of flatbread that roughly translates, rather appropriately, to “thick sponge,” tomato pie has new parameters baked into it. Like many other dishes that make the trek from Europe to America, it underwent a name change and a divorce from being tied to any holiday. Sfincione is normally served at Christmas Eve and the New Year. Tomato pie is served whenever the bakery is open.

In Philly, tomato pie dates back at least to 1910, when Iannelli’s Bakery started selling it.

When ripped out of context and borne to a new country by immigrants, dishes evolve and take on new lives.

I now think of tomato pie as less pizza and more like focaccia but with tomato. I certainly don’t need every slice of focaccia I bite into to require cheese (though it’s nice when it does).

In the weeks I spent researching and eating tomato pies for our guide, I have become a tomato pie connoisseur, tasting 24 different pies. I assess air bubbles, the golden brownness of crust, the ratio of crust to tomato interior. I question the provenance of the tomatoes (they had better be from New Jersey), and how long the dough spends proofing. I consider sweetness and tartness, the level of garlic, the amount of dried oregano, the suggestion of Parmesan.

I found that I loved both thin and thick versions, but especially ones that, like Pizzeria Beddia’s, were drenched in lightly bitter olive oil. Eating through Philly’s tomato pies was an exercise in detecting nuance and determining what made each pie special: Sarcone’s sauce is delicately sweet and the pie straight out of the oven is magic. Liberty Kitchen’s is excellent at any temperature, even more so when you add anchovies. Paffuto’s air bubbles seem to defy gravity.

My favorite tomato pie is the most elusive, from pop-up baker Zach Posnan of Brass Monkey Bakery, whose sourdough-based tomato pie is inspired by his memories of eating the ones from Gaeta’s in the Northeast, close to where he grew up. Posnan’s pie was born two years ago and was tweaked endlessly until he got to a version he was satisfied with.

“The sweet, tangy, and garlicky sauce goes on thick and a bit uneven and you get little pockets of sauce perfect for dipping some of the crispy crust into,” Posnan said. “The inside is soft and fluffy, but thick and chewy at the same time. The mix of savory, sweet, tangy, soft, and crunchy creates the perfect finger food and one I always secretly hope doesn’t sell out, so I can take a slice home for me.”

I have pursued Posnan’s pie across the city, from pop-up to pop-up, at Rally, Herman’s Coffee, and Mad Cat Brewtique in Graduate Hospital. Because it doesn’t have a permanent location, it doesn’t make sense for our brick-and-mortar-focused map. But it’s worth the chase.