Grissini Torinesi

The grissini you buy in packages are an insult to Turin. They are uniform, flavorless, and break with a limp crack that satisfies no one. True grissini torinesi are hand-stretched, irregular, thin as pencils, and when you snap one it sounds like kindling. They are addictive in a way that manufactured breadsticks can never be.

The technique is not difficult, but it requires your hands and your attention. You stretch each piece of dough between your fingers, pulling gently until it becomes a long, thin rope. Some will be thicker than others. Some will have a twist. This is correct. The irregularity proves they were made by human hands in a real kitchen.

These belong on every antipasti table in Piedmont, wrapped in prosciutto, standing in a tall glass, scattered across a board with cheese and olives. They are the bread of Turin, and Turin knows what it is doing.