Growing up, I always wanted to make pizza.

Not in some romantic, chef’s jacket kind of way — just in the way any Brooklyn kid does who grew up with sauce-stained birthdays at L&B, hitting Lenny’s before CCD, and blowing lunch money on Maria’s Pizzeria down on Fort Hamilton Parkway.

Pizza wasn’t a “dream,” it was just part of life. It was the fold-up dinner, the walk-home snack, the late-night save. But still, deep down, I always said — one day. One day I’d do it my way.

So when we grabbed this spot in Bed-Stuy — just to check the Brooklyn box and be near where my mom grew up — we found something wild: old-school pizza ovens, just sitting there, waiting. And like anything else in life, once you’ve got the right crew and a few round trips to Italy under your belt, the idea doesn’t sound so stupid anymore.

Stupid Romans is the pizza shop we never planned for — but always kind of knew would happen. It’s everything you love about a New York slice, but with that Italian left hook: the stuff they throw on pies in Calabria, Naples, Palermo — real-deal regional flavor. The sauce? A little different. The cheese mix? Classic, no fuss. And yeah, one of the pies has tuna. Because if we can slice it thin — like we do at Regina’s — we’ll throw it on top.

This place isn’t trying to be perfect. It’s not trying to be “authentic.” It’s just stupid good pizza made by some kids who grew up loving it, and now finally got the keys to their own oven.

Here we go.