Italian, I grew up with the kind of food many people typically associate us with: Authentic, fresh and simply delicious. My grandmother was one of the many women who helped bring our great reputation for food to life. She made such wonderful meals that I've since found myself on an often times frustrating and disappoining quest for those same flavors and qualties I'd come to expect. When my grandmother started getting on in years I decided that I had to get her to teach me some of her recipes. To let such treasures slip into oblivion would be a culinary crime as far as I was concerned. So, having re-located to sunny California from the North End of Boston years ago, I sent for my "Mommanonna" as we called her. Her pizza was already very famous in the North End and as finding a good slice anywhere west of the Mississippi is an arduous feat, I knew that it would be a most valued commodity. So, to commemorate the event I invited my friends and family to taste her masterpiece. It was served and then with great enthusiasm we took our first bite. But, alas, something was wrong. It didn't taste the same. "It's the crust!" we unanimously declared as we watched it sag shamefully before us.