Dante's Brustichino

“Olive oil and the other ingredients of our life” article series

Ronti lies along the strip of land that stretches from Città di Castello to Morra in Umbria, Italy. Here lives Dante, with his two passions: art and olive oil. His brustichino is a ritual, uniting the home of the past with that of today.

Brustichino, bruschetta, bread and oil, they bear the same name but are in fact not the same. The bruschetta is available to everyone, a versatile canvas that welcomes endless toppings. It leans toward what is tasty rather than what is genuine. The brustichino, on the other hand, is strict and unwavering. It follows a method, respects its few essential ingredients, and allows for no additions. Its sole purpose is to be eaten as it has always been: a slice of bread toasted over coals, rubbed with garlic, seasoned with salt, and sprinkled with good olive oil. Nothing more. Nothing less.

In the days when the table was humbler, the brustichino was a meal in itself. To make it properly, you must start with the bread: rustic, unsalted, with slices cut about an inch thick. They should be grilled evenly on both sides, never burned, over oak or turkey oak embers. The toasting must be quick enough to keep the crumb soft. While the bread is still warm, a peeled clove of garlic is rubbed firmly across one side. Olive oil is then poured generously, followed by a pinch of salt and a final stroke of the finger to spread everything evenly.

Then comes the moment: the first bite. The crispness of the outer crust, the tenderness within, a flavor at once intense and complete. Some, worried about garlic on their breath, may frown—but as the painter Jean-François Millet once said, “It is better to remain silent than to express oneself weakly.”

Excerpt from L'olio e gli altri ingredienti della nostra vita by Maurizio Pescari (Rubbettino, 2021). Translation and adaptation Camille Frachon.

Please see also our article on “Bread with olive oil, or pane olio”