Pizza vs. Coca vs. Pinsa: A Mediterranean Flatbread Throwdown

Let’s talk about flatbread.

Specifically, let’s talk about how every Mediterranean culture seems to think they invented it, and everyone else just copied it with too much cheese, not enough olives, or some other culinary crime. In fact, after living here a while, I’ve started thinking about flatbreads the way I think about Mediterranean empires: they’re all related, a bit competitive, and more alike than they’d care to admit.

Let’s start with coca, which is not to be confused with the carbonated drink or anything that requires a razor and a mirror.

Coca is a traditional Catalan and Valencian flatbread, and it can be either sweet or savory. The dough is made with flour, water, olive oil, and yeast, which are the same ingredients as a traditional pizza dough. What goes on top depends entirely on who’s cooking.

• Savory cocas might have sliced ham, eggplant or roasted peppers, sardines, or even sobrasada.
• Sweet cocas can feature fruits, nuts, and sugar, and are often eaten during festivals.

Here in Valencia, coca is deeply local. It’s sold at bakeries and mercados, eaten for breakfast or as a snack, and proudly presented as a humble, honest, no-fuss alternative to pizza. More than once, I’ve heard someone say, only half-jokingly, “The Italians just copied coca and added cheese.”

And while I’m not entirely convinced that that’s historically accurate, they’re not pulling that idea completely out of thin air.

Pizza, at least as we know it today, is most closely associated with Naples, and its origins date back to the 17^th century, which is when people started adding tomato to flatbread. Tomatoes were a relatively new ingredient at the time. They had been arriving from the New World since the 1500s, but in Italy they were generally considered poisonous until the late 1600s because they were related to deadly nightshade. Eventually they added mozzarella, which brought the holy trinity of dough, tomato, and cheese together.

Then there’s pinsa. Pinsa Romana is technically a modern revival, based on an ancient Roman-style flatbread called pinsa (from the Latin pinsere, meaning “to stretch or press out”). It resurfaced in Rome in the early 2000s as a trendier, arguably healthier cousin to pizza.

Pinsa dough uses a blend of wheat, rice, and soy flour, and undergoes a long fermentation period which gives it a light, airy texture with a crispy outside and chewy middle. It’s usually oval-shaped, rustic-looking, and (dare I say it?) in some ways I prefer it to the traditional Neapolitan pizza, which, while authentic, is often a bit too thin and soggy-centered for my tastes. (Cue Neapolitans clutching their pearls.)

Pinsa, ironically, is also more like the American-style thick crust pizza I grew up with in California. It’s just more elegant and less grease-slicked.

So yes, pizza’s roots are deep, but if we’re being honest, coca is almost certainly older. It likely dates back to medieval times, evolving from Roman influences and Arab culinary traditions during the period of Al-Andalus. And unlike pizza, coca has never insisted on cheese as a requirement.

If pizza is the international superstar, coca is the seasoned local musician who never left town and doesn’t need a record deal to draw a crowd.

But flatbreads topped with stuff? That’s ancient. There’s evidence that the Persians, Greeks, and Romans all ate some form of this long before a Valencian rolled out a coca or a Neapolitan ever spun dough into the air.

So … who was first? That depends on how you define your terms.

• If we’re talking flatbread with toppings, Rome, Persia, and the Levant all have strong claims going back millennia. No clear winner, here.
• If we’re talking pre-tomato, versatile, rooted-in-local-tradition flatbread eaten at room temperature with savory toppings, then coca is right there in the spotlight.
• If we mean flatbread with tomato and cheese, then Naples gets the prize.

I’m not here to crown a champion. That would be like choosing between the cat and the memory of my dog – impossible and emotionally reckless.

Valencians are not wrong to suggest that coca is the culinary ancestor of modern pizza. As I explored in the previous post, there were a lot of influences flowing in both directions. At the very least, it’s a close cousin that traveled a different path through history, with fewer mozzarella balls and more roasted red peppers.

But I will say this: the longer I live in Valencia, the more I appreciate the depth and diversity of the flatbread culture here. Coca isn’t trying to be pizza. It doesn’t need to be. It’s older, quieter, and arguably more grounded. Pinsa feels like a thoughtful remix of a classic. And pizza – well, pizza’s still great. But it’s not the only flatbread in town.

And if you serve me one more helping of that coca with the sobrasada and a drizzle of honey, I might just stop asking for cheese altogether.