Margherita Severa
The pizza we make to settle bets. San Marzano, fior di latte, a single basil leaf placed with regret.
Forno Vagabondo isn't a restaurant — it's a 900-kilogram oven that travels by truck, parks in a forgotten piazza, and feeds whoever finds it before midnight. Our dough rests 72 hours. Our location lasts 72 days.
In 2014 a baker named Iolanda Ferro welded a wood-fired oven onto the back of a 1973 Fiat 682 — and announced she would only serve pizza in piazzas that had been forgotten by their own city councils.
No reservations. No second locations. No deliveries — if you can't find us, you weren't supposed to eat tonight.
We move every 72 days. We bake every 90 seconds. We answer every question, including the ones about the truck.
Three pizzaioli, one bread baker, one apprentice who's been "an apprentice" since 2018, and a dog named Provola who is not allowed inside the kitchen but is, in fact, always inside the kitchen.
We pay above scale. We close on Mondays. We don't have an Instagram strategy.
We don't take reservations. We do take phone calls — but only for groups of seven or more, and only if you can name two pizzas on the menu. +39 040 ··· ····