Farinata Fascination: Taking Genoa's Chickpea Pancake from La Superba to St.Albans

The imposing Cattedrale di San Lorenzo, its black and white banded medieval façade cast in a most brilliant light by the July sun, isn’t the most normal of dining locations - but there are few places better to sample the street food most synonymous with Genoa. Its grandeur a reminder of past prosperity, Liguria has a great deal to boast of culinarily: it’s the cradle of the most famous iteration of pesto, that with basil and pine nuts, and with its capital being one of Italy’s busiest ports, it boasts of wonderfully fresh seafood. However, farinata, though made of the humblest of ingredients in what appears to be the simplest of ways, is what I had an appetite for. It’s a veritable slice of the city’s history, a dish symptomatic of the former prowess of this once feared maritime republic. 

I only had a passing familiarity with this gram flour pancake/fritter/tart/flatbread (the precise classification is debated) – though prior to my visit I had read that, though it’s found all over Genoa, there was one bakery which did it better than all the others. Thin, crisp from being fried in olive oil, slightly dense in the middle, with a warming yellow tinge from the gram flour. After a stressful hour navigating with a dying phone, I arrived at my destination, only to discover that it was shut for renovation, and would be for some months yet. As I had a train to Milan to catch in the morning, I decided that any bakery would do, and I stumbled across one which had a pristine example on display, protected from the clamouring masses in a glass case. Admittedly, when I unwrapped the flaccid, flaking slither from the greased paper, slick with olive oil, I did question whether it was worth traipsing around Genoa in the summer heat. But there was no denying the beauty of my surroundings, albeit slightly ruined by the throng of tourists and the voracity of pigeons, eager for a morsel – then again, as a hungry, annoying tourist I combined the worst traits of both. 

In truth, it was perfectly pleasant, but by no means a revelatory experience – it felt a tad lifeless, and the slight sweet mustiness one gets with ground chickpeas was evocative of so many regretful nights in curry houses, unsurprising given the prolific use of gram flour in Indian kitchens. Although the setting was almost ideal, a farinata in this state was not. It’s not necessarily meant to be consumed plain, hence why having chopped rosemary laced throughout the batter is popular, as are fried onions or mushrooms, and it is a good accompaniment to an oozing, artery clogging cheese. There’s even a popular street food consisting of fried slithers of farinata served with fried fish - effectively Liguria’s answer to fish and chips. However, since I became obsessed with trying out various recipes from across the internet, I have come to the conclusion that I usually come to with Italian cuisine: simplicity is best. Lashings of good olive oil and cracked black pepper are all that’s needed. Though the one absolute requirement, from my experience, is that the farinata must be freshly fried/baked so that it is still crisp and warm, rather than limp and tepid, like what I had. Perhaps my disappointment was exacerbated by the relentless heat and pigeons. If I had more time in the city, I doubtless would have found establishments selling farinata which would blow any of my attempts out of the water.  

Farinata is a creation with many possible origins, and many variations across the Mediterranean - possible proof of the interconnectedness of the ancient world, or possibly a case of the convergent culinary evolution which takes place wherever chickpeas and olive oil are in abundance. Nice has socca, Palermo has panelle, even Uruguayans and Argentinians have a version, fainá, the use of the Genoese dialectical name betrays its arrival in South America due to Italian immigrants. It has been suggested that Roman soldiers first devised the dish, using their scuta, large oblong shields, effectively as baking trays. It certainly has the feel of a filling dish designed to nourish an army cheaply, though perhaps its true roots are somewhat more naval. During the 1284 Battle of Meloria between the fleets of Genoa and Pisa, a storm cast one of the Genoese ships adrift and drenched the chickpea provisions in seawater. The resultant slurry was so unappetising the sailors refused to eat it, until, after it had dried in the sun for several days, desperation drove them to try it, and they found it to be most agreeable. Having managed to repair the ship enough to return to port, and with the Genoese victorious against their Tuscan rivals, the dish became symbolic of how the Republic had survived, nicknaming it ‘l’oro di Pisa’, ‘Pisan gold’, a meal better than any plunder. It is certainly true that many great Italian recipes emerged from times of struggle, but this is surely one of the most extreme examples. The Pisans must have also liked it, as it is also found throughout Tuscany under the name cecina. 

Though the myth is probably just that, it was food like this which enabled the Genoese to become so dominant on the water, with trade and warfare transforming Genoa into La Superba. Squeezed by mountains to the north, the Ligurians looked to the sea. For centuries, ships bearing the red cross of San Giorgio on their mast terrified pirates and Pisans alike. The mercantile networks established meant that chickpeas could be imported into the city, processed into gram flour, and then used to feed sailors on long voyages. The city’s now most infamous son, Cristoffa Corombo, better known as Christopher Columbus, would likely have had his fair share. Trade further afield brought exciting new ingredients into the Genoese diet, including spices such as black pepper, now considered to be essential for finishing farinata, though beyond budget for most medieval consumers. 

My lockdown fervour to recreate it resulted from the accidental ordering of a bag of gram flour hefty enough to sustain the Genoese navy. Hertfordshire is certainly far removed from the Italian Riviera, and St. Albans Cathedral isn’t as impressive as San Lorenzo, but it is somewhat fitting to be cooking a dish possibly invented by the Ancient Romans in a town arguably founded by them. For a plain farinata the ingredients are indisputable, but the method slightly varies from recipe to recipe. The usual procedure is to mix one-part chickpea flour with one and three quarters to two parts water, add a pinch of salt and a glug of olive oil, whisk together and leave to rest (as you should with any batter). Heat up a pan until smoking, add more oil, pour in the mixture, swirl it around so that it is of even thickness, allow to form a crust for a few minutes, and then either put in an oven or under a grill for approximately half an hour, or until slightly toasted on top. Then take out and leave to cool and firm up for a bit. And then, buon appetito. 

It sounds simple, but instant success rarely sparks obsession. Be warned, the cooking of it is deceptively challenging – even with a non-stick pan I have seen my efforts disintegrate before my eyes due to the crust bonding to the pan, and more than once I have tried to flip it only to witness it unceremoniously flop out. I assume the medieval Genoese, in a Teflon-less world, simply avoided the hazard of sticking through the power of prayer. Furthermore, even trying the same recipe twice, and being uncharacteristically precise with measurements, I have found the internal texture can vary from firm (good) to sloppy (bad), probably because the most minor alteration in cooking times on the hob and in the oven can determine the outcome. My most recent attempts have generally been successes, the key difference being to trust my instincts, rather than the recipe. After so many failures, one acquires a sense of when it is right, and after my mild disappointment that one summer, I feel like I’m starting to do justice to this most quintessentially Genoese, yet globally popular fare. There is always room for improvement though, and I am eager to return to La Superba and see exactly how the experts do it, and have been doing it for centuries.

Louis Thomas

Louis is a recent graduate with a passion for all things Italian and a penchant for offal. Some of his musings on food, art and travel can be found at theoutwardbound.co.uk.