A consummate innovator in the kitchen, Sorbillo says curiosity propelled him to determine whether it was the pineapple per se that was the problem on pizza, or the misguided pairing of ham and cheese with the fruit.
For three months, he experimented with different ingredients and ways to prepare the pineapple before settling on the recipe for pizza all'ananas, as it's called in Italian, now on the menu of the family restaurants throughout Italy.
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The Sorbillo version is a "pizza bianca" — a "white pizza" stripped of tomato sauce. The ubiquitous red fruit introduced into Italy from South America in the 16th century, he explains, is a redundant acidic element that clashes with pineapple, as any Italian will tell you.
"You would never add tomatoes to pear and ricotta, which are perfect together on their own," he said. "Nor would you add tomatoes to figs and prosciutto on focaccia, which would be disgusting."
The final result of Sorbillo's kitchen trials is a round pie that glistens with no fewer than three kinds of smoked and seasoned cheese — provola, made from cow's milk in nearby Agerola, and "micro-shavings" of two cacioricotta cheeses, one from Sardinian goats and the other from buffaloes that graze south of Naples.
The pineapple — fresh, not from a can, and sliced in rounds — is twice-baked to produce a buttery hint of burnt sugar and a deep, golden gleam. A drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, a tender scattering of basil leaves, and a sprinkle of black pepper are the finishing flourishes.
Even in appearance, it has little in common with its North American counterpart — a Giorgio Armani flagship store of pineapple pizzas in a world of Walmarts. (The price, though, about $10, is about as Walmart as it gets.)
It's a version that proved to be a hit with a group of American tourists at a table nearby.
While they admitted they happily chow down on pineapple pizza doused in barbeque sauce and jalapeno peppers back home, they say the taste-tug between the smoked cheese and baked pineapple was far more nuanced, but just as delicious.
Neapolitan Marco Esposito, sharing a pineapple pie with his girlfriend at another table, was more cautious in his assessment.
"I prefer traditional Italian flavours, but the caramelized pineapple is an excellent compromise," he conceded, after slipping a cut triangle in his mouth. "But this is really a pizza for socializing, eating together with a group of friends over cocktails or as a sweet snack. Not within the confines of a lunch or dinner."
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Out on the street, the manager of Atri Osteria and Pizzeria around the corner from the Sorbillo establishments hands out flyers for his joint — and makes it loud and clear what he thinks of the new tropical kid on the block.
"Pizza with pineapple you're never going to find [on my menu]!" shouted Vincenzo. who didn't want to give his last name. "Because pizza with pineapple sucks!"
He says Sorbillo has invited him to taste the new offering, but he declined.
"I tried Hawaiian pizza when I lived in the States and once was enough."
A short stroll away, into the working-class Spanish Quarters of Naples, a banner outside Pizzeria Augusteo boasts that it's ranked No. 2 of all Neapolitan pizzerias on the travel site Trip Advisor.
