A Palermitan Dawn
There is something almost ceremonial about early mornings in Palermo. Before the city’s rhythm reaches its usual crescendo, the air hangs with the warm scent of frying dough and freshly brewed coffee. It is during this fleeting hour - between seven and nine - that the true Palermitan breakfast reveals itself. Not a croissant, not a simple pastry, but something far more indulgent, more local, more unapologetically Sicilian: the cartoccio con ricotta.
Wandering through the still-waking streets, I find myself drawn inevitably to a neighbourhood bar where trays of these golden spirals emerge from the kitchen like small suns. They are neither pastry nor brioche, neither street food nor bakery staple. Instead, they belong to their own irresistible category - a morning treat designed to be eaten standing at the counter, still warm, still fragrant, still singing with that unmistakable Sicilian combination of simplicity and abundance.
The Soul of the Ricotta
In Sicily, ricotta is not an ingredient; it is a heritage. And here, for the cartoccio, there is only one rule: sheep’s milk ricotta. Any other variety, I am told with a grin and a firm shake of the head, simply will not do. High in whey, delicate in flavour, and velvet-soft, it must be drained patiently overnight to reach the perfect consistency - a step treated with almost religious devotion in Palermitan kitchens.
Once the ricotta has released its moisture, it is beaten with sugar - gently, lovingly - until it becomes a cream that feels both rustic and luxurious. Some prefer to sieve it for a silky finish; others champion the charm of a slightly grainier texture, richer with character. A scattering of chocolate adds its own joyful punctuation. This filling is then chilled, waiting for its warm companion to emerge from the fryer.
The Magic of the Mezza Brioche
The dough of the cartoccio is another character entirely - a mezza brioche, as locals call it. Less rich than a French brioche, softer than typical bread dough, delightfully elastic, and tailor-made for quick frying. Watching a Palermitan pastry maker work this dough is mesmerising: he weighs, kneads, folds, shaping each ball with a fluid confidence only generations of practice can teach.
Each piece is rolled into a supple cylinder and wound around a small metal tube - a modern stand-in for the bamboo canes once cut from riverbanks, polished by hand, and sold to pastry makers across the island. These antique canes, now treasured relics, once shaped both cannoli and cartocci. Today, their aluminium successors maintain the tradition without the romance, but always with the same purpose: creating that hollow interior destined for ricotta.
Into the Oil, Into the Air
Once shaped, the dough is left to rise - a slow swelling that transforms each piece into something soft, plump, full of promise. Then comes the moment that always draws a crowd: the frying.
Lowered gently into hot oil, the cartocci puff and bronze within seconds, filling the air with a smell that can disarm even the sternest morning commuter. Lifted out, they glisten, light and airy, their ridges waiting to cradle the sweet filling. But they must cool - a torment for those watching - for warm dough and cool ricotta must meet in perfect harmony.
The First Bite
When the cartoccio is finally ready, it is filled generously with chilled ricotta, piped until the shell is full and heavy in the hand. The first bite is a study in contrasts: a crisp, softly fried shell giving way to cold cream; sweetness balanced by the earthy depth of Sicilian sheep’s milk; a hint of chocolate brightening every mouthful.
Standing at a Palermitan counter with one of these in hand, I feel the city gather around me - its traditions, its flavours, its unabashed love of pleasure. This is not a dessert. It is not a pastry. It is a morning embrace, a confection born from centuries of resourcefulness, devotion, and joy.
A Tradition That Lives in Every Bar
The beauty of the cartoccio lies in its specificity. You cannot take it away in a box for later. You do not serve it at a dinner table. It belongs to the morning, to the bar, to the informal and intimate ritual of Sicilian life. Its recipe may now be shared online, reproduced in home kitchens, but its spirit lives only here - in Palermo, where ricotta is poetry and frying is an act of love.
And as I finish mine, licking a last trace of cream from my fingers, I realise that this humble coil of dough tells a story as compelling as any noble dessert: a story of people who make joy from the simplest of things, who treasure their ingredients, who honour their past while evolving their craft.
Palermo at Breakfast
To know Sicily, they say, you must taste its mornings. And in Palermo, nothing captures that truth better than the cartoccio con ricotta - a golden, fragrant reminder that the island’s sweetest treasures are often the ones eaten with the sunrise.