My journey started at L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele in Naples. A visit to da Michele, first opened in 1870, is an act of pilgrimage, even appearing in “Eat, Pray, Love.” That meant a raggedy line extending well down the sidewalk. After 45 minutes, our family nabbed a small table near the mouth of the wood-fired oven.

I watched as the dough was spun-stretched into an impossibly thin round, draped onto a wooden peel, topped in seconds with tomato sauce and mozzarella di bufala, then slid into the back of the oven near a large mound of glowing coals. The pizza was constantly rotated and checked, and in 70 seconds the finished pie was pulled from the oven, sliced and served.

Foolishly, I thought that this demonstration was a form of divine guidance—someday I too would become a master pizzaiolo. Nope. Years followed of tough, too thin, tasteless and totally forgettable homemade pizzas. The one bright spot was my grilled pizza, which, for whatever reason, was notable. But the oven was still a no-fly zone for tomato pies.

Then last year, Milk Street’s editorial director, J.M. Hirsch, traveled to Bari, Italy (directly across from Naples on the Adriatic), to Panificio Fiore. Their focaccia was a revelation, and so was the recipe. The hydration level (the weight of the water divided by the weight of the flour) was over 90 percent, and the rising time was four hours, during which the dough rose, collapsed and rose again. It was not lost on me that the charm of this recipe, in addition to the outstanding crust and texture, was that the dough was simply poured into the pan—no da Michele expertise required.

Converting this recipe to a weeknight pizza, however, was another matter. The first issue was the amount of dough for the pan. When I split the recipe between two 12-inch round pizza pans, I got thick focaccia, not pizza: 20 percent less dough worked better. I also slightly reduced the hydration level from 95 percent to 89 percent for better chew and a bit less airiness but left the rising time at four hours plus.