Panforte, with Memories

My first sight of Italy was a disappointment. Arriving in Florence on the overnight train from the cold of an Austrian December, I flung up the shade to my compartment as the train began to slow down. I was twenty years old, an art history student, and could not wait to see the glory and beauty that was Italy. I was in no way prepared for the sight that greeted me.

Dawn was breaking and it revealed, not unspeakable beauty, but laundry hanging from ramshackle buildings and a wide, muddy brown river. Could this really be the Arno I had heard so much about? Wearily wandering around Florence that morning we fled from reckless Vespa drivers, were accosted by a band of gypsy children, and managed to eat bad Italian food (bad Italian food!) in a generic Florentine cafeteria entirely lacking in atmosphere.

Italy was not living up to my expectations.

The trip was not living up to my expectations either. I was traveling with my mother and her new boyfriend, who had come from California to spend the winter holiday with me. I had been living and studying in Vienna, my first time overseas without family, my first heady taste of a grown-up life. I stayed out late in clubs, spent my afternoons in cafes, and had begun to dress entirely in black—which I thought made me sophisticated and European. My life felt romantic and full of advenuture, exactly how I had always wanted it to be.

I was excited to see my mother and share my new life with her, but when she and George descended from the train in Vienna I couldn’t hide my disappointment. They were dressed all wrong—he in a parka that might have done duty on a polar expedition, she in an old sheepskin coat I had begged her to get rid of for years. Armed with their backpacks and guidebooks they were inescapably American. In about three seconds flat I went from sophisticated young woman in Europe back to being an American daughter.

Not only were my traveling companions a disappointment, now Italy was letting me down.


That is not a smile—it's a look that says I'm only being civil because you have a camera, just leave me alone and let me sulk in peace!

At one point, in that long morning of wandering around Florence, I plopped myself down on a street corner in exasperation. Nothing was working out the way I had imagined it would and I wanted to cry. As I sat there I glanced to my side and saw a carving of St. George slaying the dragon. Here, on a street corner, for anyone to see and touch, was an early work by Donatello, a precursor to the grand developments of the Renaissance. I couldn’t believe that art was out in the open in this way, for people to live their lives around.

And later, as we drove into the Tuscan countryside to visit friends who lived in the Chianti, I was amazed to see the landscape I had studied come to life. Here were the trees I recognized from Leonardo’s paintings, the ones that looked like popsicles. Here too were rows of grape vines and silvery grey olive trees, old homes built of a warm ocher stone that seemed knit into the landscape.

Our friends Tina and Roberto lived in one of these homes, ancient with arching doorways. In the exterior walls there were slits originally used as bow and arrow slots during the Roman era (the Roman era!). The watchtower had collapsed long ago, but the view down the sloping fields and across to hill villages on the other side remained unchanged. There was a cantina filled with wine and oil made from the grapes and olives that grew on the property, and a fireplace in the kitchen large enough to roast one of the wild boars that roamed the hills and fields. It was December, hunting season, and we occasionally heard gunshots echoing out in the valley.



Despite our discomfort with each other, we settled into Tuscany and she began to have her way with us.

It's a cliche but the food was amazing. I had never had such lush olive oil—thick, like juice. I had never known a simple dish of sautéed spinach could taste so good. I had never had pasta so tender or cheese so full of flavor. And one afternoon, in a small restaurant near the town of Mercatale, I ate ravioli stuffed with mushrooms that dissolved in my mouth with such layered flavors of the woods that I thought I would never again taste anything that amazing.

And yet things were still difficult within my family. I was in that awkward place of not fully being an adult, yet not wanting to still be a child. I had not previously met George and wasn’t used to having my mother’s attention divided—yet I didn’t want her to be my mother the way she had always been. I desperately wanted her to see me for the adult I imagined I had become, something she didn't seem able to do. Failing to have any perspective on the situation and my emotions, I became bratty—proving that I wasn’t nearly the grown up I fancied myself to be, not to mention, shockingly ungrateful for what I realize now was an extraordinary experience.

Perhaps the worst day was the day we went to Siena. Tina and Roberto remained at home, leaving the three of us without buffer from each other. We wandered around the central square, site of the famous Palio horse race, and I lagged behind, hoping no one would connect me with the unfashionable pair who were clearly tourists. I often notice this of teenagers these days, how they stand apart, desperately wanting not to be associated with the adults they are bound too. Seeing this now both breaks my heart and makes me smile; I too have been that child.



But there in Siena we discovered something extraordinary, something we could all agree on. In the shops that lined the small alleys and streets there were round discs wrapped in paper. It was panforte, a dense confection of dried fruit, nuts, and spices unlike anything I had ever tasted before. Though I am not a huge fan of dried fruit and hate fruitcake of all kinds, the sparkling flavors of orange and lemon peel in the panforte made me happy—happier than I had been that entire difficult day.

I hadn’t thought about panforte in years, until one day this spring when I noticed that my favorite bakery, Della Fattoria, had begun to sell panforte at the Ferry Plaza Farmers’ Market. I couldn’t help but buy some, for panforte is not easy to find. When I got it home and took off the wrapper, the scent alone brought all my memories back—that day in Siena, the painful and graceless struggle of trying to grow into who I would be. When I cut into the panforte and tasted that tangle of citrus and spice I felt as if I were twenty all over again, caught between childhood and the urge for my own independence.



I also felt lucky, for this is the exact panforte that I remember and love. The flavors are perfect. It is perhaps—dare I say it—even better than some of the Sienese panforte I have tasted. It is certainly fresher, for I've not found another domestic version. This is the first panforte I've had that wasn't made in Italy and shipped here (yay for local eating).



Panforte has been a bit of an obsession for me. While most people know of the Italian panettone, that fluffy fruit studded cake/bread, few people outside of Italy recognize panforte, a mixture of dried fruit, nuts, honey, and spices, bound together with just the smallest amount of flour. The history of panforte is murky, though everyone seems to agree that it is an old recipe, dating back to the Middle Ages. It is said that panforte was carried by soldiers on the crusades (soldiers, on the crusades!).

There seems to be two stories about the origin of panforte—one that it was made by residents as a tithe to the local monastery, and indeed there are records that show the confection used in this manner in the 13th century. The other story is that, following a siege of Siena, a nun named Sister Berta became concerned with the health of the local residents and began making a concoction of dried fruit and nuts that would help people regain their energy (the world’s first energy bar, perhaps?). There are some outlandish sounding stories about the origins of the dessert—talking cats from the devil, the transformation of a crust of bread offered to Jesus. It seems as though there is a definite connection to the church, for panforte is traditionally made in pans lined with what were originally leftover communion wafers. Over the years panforte began to be made by the pharmacists in Siena, each one carefully guarding their own recipe.



There is also debate over the name. Most people saying it means strong bread, but a few believe the forte actually means bitter. What is certain is that panforte is one of those foods of a specific era. Venetian merchants brought back the spices used in panforte when the trade routes were established, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves. At one point it was believed that panforte had aphrodisiac qualities, due to the “hot” spices used in the mixture. It was said to keep families together and prevent spouses from fighting.

There are two different kinds of panforte—nero (black) and bianco (white), also called Panforte Margherita. The second version was invented in 1879, when Queen Margherita of Savoy came to Siena to attend the Palio horse race held in the central plaza. It is a lighter flavor, often topped with powdered sugar, and has become more popular than the darker, spicer version.

Della Fattoria is making two kinds of panforte—plain and chocolate. I couldn’t resist getting one of each to try. While they are both good, I prefer the plain fruit version as it lets the citrus notes shine. Though the Della Fattoria panforte bianco is not topped with powdered sugar or baked with a wafer bottom, I have to say I like it better this way. The purity of the flavors take center stage, that intoxicating mix of fruit and spice I have not tasted since that time in Siena.



I’ve since poked around and found a few recipes for panforte online (this one seems the most promising to me). There's one in the Tartine Cookbook as well (a nontraditional version using figs, Meyer lemons, and other local ingredients), and David Lebovitz has a chocolate panforte recipe in Room for Dessert. While panforte is now available year round, it does have strong connections to Christmas. It’s even said that panforte inspired the British holiday fruitcake, though I much prefer the original.

I’m not in San Francisco much these days, so unless I want to make panforte on my own I’ll be bringing it to Seattle with me. While I’m curious to try my hand, I fear I would never come up with anything as perfect as the Della Fattoria version (and why bother, when they’ve done all the hard work for me?). If the knights of the crusade were able to carry panforte with them on horseback to the holy lands, mine should have no problem surviving the trip to Seattle. And carry it with me I will, for one taste of this sweet and spicy confection brings back so many memories.



Sometimes special flavors and foods are like a time capsule, taking us back to a certain place in our history, showing us a mirror of who we used to be. I've changed since that December in Italy. I’ve given up the urge to be sophisticated, which never really suited me. I’ve come to accept that the instant my mother walks in the room I am her daughter, regardless of whatever else I may be. I continue to love Europe and art—and my friends will tell you that I still wear a distressing amount of black, but it’s more from ease than affectation. Best of all, I can look back at my history and laugh at my young silliness, at the angst that felt so difficult at the time, so urgent.

Yet I still love panforte. I don’t think that’s going to change, no matter what life wisdom I might pick up along the way. Now, happily, I know where to find it.

Della Fattoria
at the San Francisco Ferry Building Farmers' Market or in Petaluma, at their cafe
141 Petaluma Boulevard North
Petaluma, CA 94952
Phone: 707-763-0161
Tues-Thurs and Saturday, 7am-3pm
Fridays, 7am-9pm
Closed Monday