It’s a look I’ve come to appreciate, even if it shames me a bit. A look each of the five Vittozzi sisters is a master of—undoubtedly learned from their mother and grandmother, usually cooking nearby. A look slightly scolding, slightly puzzled by the silliness of my questions. A look, nonetheless, followed by a patient explanation of everything I’ve misunderstood.

I’ve cooked with the Vittozzi sisters—Rosa, Anna, Veronica, Enza and Elena—repeatedly over the years at La Tavernetta Vittozzi, their cozy back-alley restaurant not far from the Gulf of Naples. It’s the sort of Central Casting eatery where most diners are diners who visit daily, where the side dishes are displayed in the window and the menu is handwritten and photocopied fresh.

Each time, I bring new-to-me mysteries from my mission to understand real Italian cooking. How do you make the perfect meatball? How do you get your onions so beautifully caramelized for pasta Genovese? What’s the real Italian wedding soup and why is it so much better than Italian-American versions? And oh-my-god! your grandmother’s lasagna! Please, teach me!

Hence, the look.

This visit is no different. This time I’ve come to them to learn Parmigiana di melanzane, or eggplant Parmesan, a dish loved and loathed in the U.S. Loved because it channels the spirit of lasagna, with meaty-rich slabs of eggplant standing in for the noodles, layered and slathered in sweet tomato sauce, herbs and cheese. Loathed because, well ... where should I start?

In the U.S., the equation is pretty standard. Slabs of eggplant are dipped in flour, then dipped in egg, then dipped in breadcrumbs. It would be hard to imagine a better-­designed culinary sponge. Which is why when those slabs are deep-fried, they sop up ridiculous amounts of oil no amount of tangy tomato sauce can cut through. And don’t forget the mozzarella.

Which is to say, in the U.S. eggplant Parmesan too often is a gut-buster of a dish.

It’s another matter entirely in Italy, where claims to the dish’s origins are debated, though most say the dish dates back at least a few hundred years and center it around southern regions or Sicily.

The eggplant Parmesan emerged bubbling and browned. The taste was rich, savory and sweet. Most notable was the smoked provolone, a wonderful contrast to the tangy-sweet tomatoes.

She didn’t merely layer tomato sauce, fresh basil, eggplant and cheese—more on the cheese in a moment—she rotated the pan 90 degrees with each successive layer. The result created an almost thatched structure in the finished dish, making it easier to cut, serve and eat.

As for that cheese... We’re used to a blend of Parmesan and stringy mozzarella, the latter generally adding heft without a lot of flavor. But at La Tavernetta Vittozzi, they favor a blend of Parmesan and smoked provolone. I wasn’t convinced it would make a difference, assuming the smoky flavors would be lost under the tomato sauce and assertive Parmesan.

As usual, I was wrong. Baked for just about 20 minutes, the eggplant Parmesan emerged bubbling and lightly browned. The taste was phenomenal, rich and savory and sweet. And the most notable flavor was the smoked provolone, a wonderful contrast to the tangy-sweet tomatoes that added tremendous depth.

Our changes to the Vittozzis’ recipe were minor. We liked a bit of butter stirred into the tomato sauce; it gave it a wonderful richness—thank you, Marcella Hazan! And with a bit of tinkering, we found that brushing the eggplant with oil and baking it delivered results as good and even a bit lighter, and with less mess.

A result, I suspect, that won’t earn me another look from the Vittozzi sisters. Until next time, of course.