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The first time I ever saw a small individual pizza was in California in 1974. Its appearance was gratuitous and accidental. As chef I was faced with what to serve at Chez Panisse’s third-birthday celebration, planned as an all-day open house. I was looking through a favorite textbook of those days, La Cuisine du Comte de Nice, by Jacques Médecin, a recipe for something called, aptly enough, “Les Panisses.” Excitement caused haste, and I did not read the recipe carefully, noting only that it was a flat pancake type of thing with something boring on top which I knew I could improve upon. I wrote the menu—