My most well-known pizza. I’ve been riffing on it the world over. It’s straight-up stolen from my great-grandmother. Breadcrumbs were a constant in her cooking. They’re practical and symbolic. Great-grandma Lena made bread daily. By drying and blending the stale, leftover bread, you got the best breadcrumbs, a way to thicken sauce and add texture to dishes gratis. Nothing wasted.
The symbolism comes from Saint Joseph, whose feast day we celebrated with a meatless pasta of favas, fennel, and breadcrumbs, the last symbolizing sawdust in a carpenter’s workshop. I was spared a lot of Catholic indoctrination, but I’m writing this at my desk by a glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary that belonged to my grandfather, and I wear a Saint Christopher necklace because it was a gift, my father wears one and it’s supposed to protect the wearer while traveling. I don’t put too much stock in it, but these connections are important (and I’ll tell you this, if I open my own place it will be on a Tuesday because that superstition was passed to me too).
Religion and superstition aside, I use breadcrumbs in many pizzas. But on the Falco, they’re the star. They’re layered onto the sauce with a hard cheese and olive oil to create a magical “super sauce” that comes together in the oven. It’s a balance some have difficulty recreating—too much, it’s dry. Not enough? Too wet.
Without mozzarella, this pizza is nothing but full, maximum-strength, nonna mamma mia vibes. It’s a Sicilian flavor profile punch in the mouth.
Recipe and image excerpted from Pizza Czar: Recipes and Know-How from a World-Traveling Pizza Chef by Anthony Falco. Abrams Books, 2021. Photographs copyright 2021 by Evan Sung, Molly Tavoletti, and Anthony Falco.