By the time I came back to Israel in May 2025, the food truck was running. Real setup, real food, real people making the trip from across the north — from Tel Aviv, from Jerusalem, from the communities around Tsipori.
I walked up to Ayala with confidence I hadn't quite earned. "I make pizza now. I think it would work here."
No hesitation, no "we'll see", no "let's think about it". In the most Israeli attitude: "Great. The truck opens in three hours. Can you do it?"
That's Israel. No nonsense. Just action. You say you can do something you prove it.
I said yes.
Big mistake
The dough was too hydrated. The weather was too warm, calculations didn’t match. Working under pressure. I couldn't even form proper dough balls. Complete failure — real people, real situation, nowhere to hide.
The next day I tried again. This time it worked.
Not perfect. But real. We made pizza, people ate it, and the reactions came in a balagan of opinions: the dough is amazing, make the toppings spicier, less Italian, more of the region — and from others, fascination at how closely it tasted like something they'd had in Italy. Nobody agreed. Everyone came back for more.
After three weeks, people were recognising me already from Instagram. "Aah, you're the pizza man." I was slightly puzzled, and then quietly proud — not of the attention, but of what had caused it. The work. The pizza.
This wasn't practice anymore.