I first encountered pane cunzatu not in Sicily but in the northwestern village where I grew up, which was, as you may imagine, deeply Catholic. After major celebrations, especially the midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, the choir, our parish priest, Father Marco, the altar servers and anyone who had helped with the service would gather in the rectory upstairs.
Back then, Father Marco’s housekeeper was from Sicily, and she always prepared pane cunzatu for us: she would slice open a still-warm loaf, add tomatoes, oregano, anchovies, plenty of olive oil, and a little cheese, then give it a quick turn in the oven before bringing it to the table.
