In Defense of the Unsung Dry Italian Toast

The first time I tried fette biscottate, I popped one in my mouth without any toppings. I coughed. I choked. It tasted nothing like food—more like one of those flimsy brown paper napkins from a fast-food joint.

If you’ve never encountered this Italian pantry staple, picture a lovely, fluffy slice of white bread, slightly flattened, then toasted repeatedly on the lowest setting—think about a two—until it’s practically annihilated. The result is a rock-hard slice that somehow isn’t burnt, not even overdone. It’s simply dry. Despite being just desiccated wheat bread, fette biscottate have much more in common with cardboard. They’re so bland that even my carb-loving 5-year-old will take one bite and promptly spit it out.

And yet, I absolutely love them.

This twice-baked bread is popular throughout Europe and Asia, but I first encountered it in the early 2000s when I shared an apartment in Milan with two young Italian women. I observed my roommates for tips on how to fit in, eventually realizing that the easiest way to become Italian was to eat like one. I explored their pantry, mirrored their grocery choices, and struggled my way through my first fette biscottate.

The internet doesn’t translate 'fette biscottate' as 'crackers' or 'biscuits'; it opts for 'rusks.' The term rusk means nothing to me—I can’t even picture it. As an Italian speaker, I think of it more like 'sliced cookie breads,' which is misleading since they resemble nothing like cookies. They certainly don’t look like the nut-filled treats wrapped in cellophane that Americans call biscotti. If you want a cookie, grab a cookie. If you seek a carbohydrate surfboard, fette biscottate is your answer.

While their uninspiring English name accurately reflects their blandness, it doesn’t convey their incredible potential with toppings. It wasn’t until I watched my Italian roommates serve their fette biscottate with marmalade and ricotta, steaming milk for their espresso, that I truly grasped their allure. I gathered my own toppings and soon, fette biscottate became the star of my Italian breakfasts. Their charm lies not in what they are, but in what they can become. Top them with marmalade and ricotta, or indulge in Nutella. Honey, jam, butter, and nut butter all shine. With just a butter knife, they transform into a blank canvas for morning creativity. Their versatility keeps them exciting day after day.

Though they seem so fragile they could crumble with a gentle breath, fette biscottate surprisingly bear more weight than you'd think. They’re like the ants of the breakfast spread, yet they remain dry. These rusks are completely moisture-free. If you found yourself in a desert with only one to eat, it might actually be fatal. However, this dryness offers the perfect contrast to rich jam or creamy nut butter. It’s the parched yin to a luscious yang; the pinnacle of balance.

Fette biscottate and spreads make a formidable pair, but they elevate to another level when paired with a latte, combining the crunch of the edges, the soft center, the warm coffee, and the cool spread. However, dipping a jam-covered rusk is a delicate endeavor. Bite into one without dunking, and you’ll find crumbs everywhere. Conversely, they dissolve in hot milk like a sandcastle meets water. You have mere seconds after dunking before they become part of your drink. Only by risking such crumbling can you unlock the ultimate flavor.

Sadly, fette biscottate just don’t resonate in the U.S. Here, we prefer our packaged breakfast treats with built-in hydration, loaded with sugar and fat, moisture and flavor. I enjoy granola bars, Pop-Tarts, and Toaster Strudels as much as anyone, but they’re designed for lazy mornings and demand nothing from us.

The closest equivalent to fette biscottate I can find in a large American grocery store today are French “egalite” rusks, ironically nestled in the “luxury” cheese section. They mingle with upscale boxes of crackers, avoiding any connection with the Ritz crackers just a few aisles away. While the flavor isn’t vastly different from fette biscottate, they don’t satisfy my cravings. They’re too hard and far too small—about a quarter the size of the real thing. One would have to consume 20 to match the heft of just four or five fette biscottate. I could slather them with jam, but it feels inappropriate given their cheese pairing. Ultimately, their real failing is that they’re not Italian.

When I find myself longing for those elusive toasts, I order fette biscottate from Eataly, Amazon, or various internet vendors with rather mundane names like Italian Food Store Online. The packages are usually reasonably priced (around $4 or $5), but after shipping costs, it becomes a steep price for a small, dried piece of bread.

Yet I willingly splurge on them from time to time, especially when fall arrives and the air evokes memories of when I first touched down in Milan. I can almost smell the nostalgia of my Italian breakfasts. I’ll enjoy fette biscottate at my table in Wisconsin and envision myself back in Italy, where people can transform something as mundane and dry as a rusk into something that sounds—and is—so delightful as fette biscottate.

Kelly Green likes dogs more than you do. She is a writer residing in Madison, Wisconsin, where most of her running routes conclude in front of a bakery.