There is a boy who grew up in the mountains of Barbagia who had never eaten pizza until he was eleven years old. Today he oversees the standards of forty-nine pizzerias in the heart of the United Kingdom, training pizzaiolos every day who didn't even know what a cornicione was.
His name is Lorenzo Floris, he comes from Tonara, Sardinia, and he is the Operation Pizzaiolo of the Rudy's group — one of the most ambitious and successful authentic Neapolitan pizza projects in Europe.
Nougat, market stalls, and a pizza he didn't like
Lorenzo Floris was not born with flour on his hands. He was born in a village where the product of excellence is torrone — nougat — and where pizza, at least for him, at least as a child, held no particular appeal.
"Until I was ten or eleven, I never ate pizza. I didn't like it, I couldn't eat it. Crazy, right?"
Before ever touching a dough, Lorenzo used to travel the village festivals of Sardinia, selling nougat from market stalls. A job built on contact, relationship, voice and hands — perhaps not so different, when you think about it, from what he would eventually become.
The turning point came at fifteen or sixteen, almost by chance. His uncle had a pizzeria. His older brother had already worked as a pizzaiolo. And one day someone asked the boy if he wanted to come and help — cutting mozzarella, doing the small things that always need doing.
From that moment on, everything changed. Not immediately, not all at once. But it changed.
"At first I didn't even like it, to be honest. But then I started to like it more and more. And now I eat it five times a week, twice a day."
There is something, though, that predates even that first experience in the pizzeria. A smell Lorenzo has carried with him since childhood, and which he still finds in his daily work: the scent of the bakery beneath his childhood home, run by an elderly woman.
"I was always there, fixed to the spot, because I wanted to eat fresh bread. That smell of baking — the moment a pizza comes out of the oven, I find it again every time. That one, definitely."
Scotland, Australia, and the discovery that pizza opens the world
The moment Lorenzo understands that pizza is his vocation — not just a job, but a real path — doesn't happen in Sardinia. It happens in Scotland.
"I went from Italy to Scotland to make pizzas, and that's where I understood that this is a job that can open up the world to you. Wherever you go, people love pizza. So I thought: why not? I can travel the world doing what I love."
From idea to practice, the step is short. After Scotland comes Australia, where a crucial encounter takes place: a Neapolitan guy who introduces him for the first time to real Neapolitan pizza. Lorenzo had been used to Sardinian pizza — thinner, crispier, a completely different philosophy. That guy becomes his first acknowledged mentor.
But above all, he leaves Lorenzo with a phrase that still serves as his compass today:
"He told me: wherever you go, you will always learn from everyone. What you have to do is steal the craft from every single person you meet."
From that moment, Lorenzo becomes a quiet collector of knowledge. Every pizzeria, every colleague, every different dough is an opportunity. "I've had so many mentors without them even knowing it."
Arriving at Rudy's: a wife, a tip, and forty-nine pizzerias later
The Rudy's chapter begins in the simplest, most human way possible: a piece of advice from his wife.
Lorenzo was working at another pizzeria in London, where he wasn't happy. His wife, who had heard good things about this group making Neapolitan pizza with seriousness and passion, encouraged him to give it a try. Lorenzo went. And never left.
"I fell in love with it straight away. Apart from the pizza, which was excellent — it was the idea, it was the fact that they wanted to make a product that yes, was known, but not that well known yet. And the people working there were all passionate first of all, and then excellent pizzaiolos. For me it was a double win."
That was eight and a half years ago. Back then, Rudy's had a single location. Today it has thirty-nine.
Operation Pizzaiolo: keeping the soul alive at scale
The title of Operation Pizzaiolo is not an honorary one. It is a role that demands being everywhere — or at least making your presence felt everywhere, even when you're physically somewhere else, in another location, another city.
Lorenzo's task is precise: ensuring that standards, method and tradition are upheld across each of the group's nearly fifty pizzerias. A task that, he openly admits, is "the hardest part of the job."
"The difficulty is that there are many minds involved, and every mind thinks it knows better than the others. So it takes a lot of control, a lot of training, a lot of in-house courses at our academy."
But Lorenzo's strategy doesn't focus solely on technical oversight. It targets passion. Because if you can transmit passion — if you can make a pizzaiolo see the work not as something to get through but as something that belongs to them — then everything else follows.
"If you can get a pizzaiolo to think that it's not just a job, that they actually enjoy doing it — you've won. Because then they care about making a good product, about following the right standards."
The most rewarding part, Lorenzo says, is watching young people grow. Those kids who arrive knowing nothing, and who with time — through training, through transmitted passion, through internalized standards — become real pizzaiolos.
"When you find young people who don't know anything and you see them become good pizzaiolos — that's the most satisfying thing. More than anything else."
Bringing Neapolitan pizza to the British: a matter of patience and free pizza
The cultural challenge is real. Bringing authentic Neapolitan pizza to the British market — where for years pizza meant thin and crispy bases, compacted mozzarella, long bakes at low temperatures — requires patience, consistency and the occasional creative approach.
"When we move into cities or towns where people don't know this type of pizza, we push through marketing, but above all we make them try it. When we open a new location, we offer free pizza for a couple of weeks. We want people to come close, taste it, understand what it's really about."
The landscape, however, has shifted. Compared to ten years ago, Neapolitan pizza in the UK has a completely different visibility. The audience has informed itself, learned to distinguish, developed a more curious palate.
"People know what Neapolitan pizza means. They're educating themselves culturally. And that makes all the difference."
The AVPN: recognition, responsibility and the credibility to teach
For Rudy's, the affiliation with the Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana is not a plaque on the wall. It is a working tool — and a declaration of identity.
"It's without a doubt both things: recognition and responsibility. Recognition because we are certified to make a traditional pizza the way it should be made, respecting certain rules. Responsibility because we have to make sure that what we do meets those standards every single day."
There is also a dimension Lorenzo highlights with particular force: the value of the AVPN in training. When teaching someone with no experience, being able to say "we are certified by this association" changes the weight of every word.
"It's different from saying 'I've made pizzas, let me show you how.' It gives you credibility. It says that what you're doing, you know how to do well — and someone has verified that."
And his advice for anyone approaching the world of pizza who doesn't yet know the association is unequivocal: "Come and do the course. Because beyond the hands-on side, you learn a huge amount of theory. Something that in many places you simply can't get — they teach you to stretch, to top, to put in the oven, with no underlying principles behind it. With the AVPN it's different. It's comprehensive. And it's enjoyable, too."
The open kitchen and the children who said "wow"
Before Rudy's, Lorenzo had always worked in pizzerias where the kitchen was separate from the dining room. The classic hidden counter, the invisible pizzaiolo, the product arriving at the table with no trace of how it came to be.
Rudy's works differently. The pizzeria is open. The oven is visible. Customers can watch.
And that visibility changed something in the way Lorenzo experiences his work.
"I started seeing children — and adults too — coming close and looking at you with wide eyes. As if to say: wow. And so you'd let them in, you'd let the kids stretch a little dough, just for fun, just to draw them in."
Those are the moments Lorenzo misses most now that the operational role has given way to management. He misses the full dining room, the fire, the astonished eyes. He even misses tossing the pizza in the air — "every now and then, just for fun" — and the satisfaction of watching people change their minds right in front of you.
"People say: it's just a pizza. No. It's not just a pizza. There's so much behind a pizza."
Comfort, family, simplicity: a pizza in three words
If he had to describe his ideal pizza in three words — not ingredients, but sensations — Lorenzo doesn't hesitate.
"Comfort. Family. And simplicity."
Three words that also tell the story of his vision for the future. The dream is to have his own pizzeria one day. Something small, warm, human. A place that looks like those three words.
For now, though, the priorities are clear: to keep growing with Rudy's, in the right way. To make sure that growth — forty-nine locations and counting — never loses the soul that made it possible.
"I get on really well with them. It's been a long time, and growing together is my priority right now."
From nougat stalls in the Sardinian countryside to overseeing nearly fifty pizzerias in the heart of the United Kingdom, Lorenzo Floris has stolen the craft from everyone worth watching. And now, every day, he teaches others to do the same.
