Tomato Focaccia: A Loaf for Lazy Days

jonashton
3 days ago
9 min read

Updated: 9 hours ago

Focaccia is comfort without apology—golden, crisp, and so simple it feels like a love letter from the oven.

Pula, Summer—Years Ago, but Still Warm in My Mind

Some days, I rather enjoy lazy cooking. Not the kind born of apathy or empty cupboards, but the kind where the kitchen breathes a little easier. Recipes that truly sing, but haven’t spent hours rehearsing. A good slow cooker stew, a bowl of ricotta stirred with herbs, or—as was the case this morning—a bread that asks only for time and a bit of warmth.

Today, I needed something gentle. Something to anchor me. There was nothing particularly dramatic about the morning—no sorrow, no celebration—but I found myself craving the quiet comfort of bread in the oven and tomatoes in the sun.

I’d been craving focaccia. The tomatoes in the garden, still glistening with dew, have been arriving in abundance—ripe, plump, and splitting at their seams with joy. Each morning, I pluck a few, still warm from the early sun, and bring them inside like treasure. Today, they demanded to be used. Not in something fussy. Just something honest.

It reminded me of a recipe I learned in Pula, Italy. A seaside town where the air carries salt and wild fennel, and where even the simplest food tastes of something ancient. I had gone there to rest after a long season of too much everything—too much work, too much noise, not enough self. I remember a stone courtyard with uneven tiles, vines heavy with grapes, and an old woman—wrists dusted with flour—pressing dough into a battered pan. There was no folding. No artisan stretch and slap. Just water, flour, oil, and a kind of reverence for simplicity.

Her focaccia had a higher water content than most, which gave it an airy, almost custard-like softness beneath a golden, crisp top. The olive oil pooled at the bottom of the pan worked its magic, forming a crust that snapped under the teeth, while the inside remained cloud-soft.

That memory followed me home. And so, today, with the garden gently humming with bees, the occasional rustle of a blackbird in the hedgerow, and the dog snoozing in a patch of sun, I made a version of that Pula bread.

The dough is effortless. No kneading, no folding—just a long, slow rise and the promise of something beautiful by the end of it. I marinated cherry tomatoes in oregano, garlic, and olive oil, pressing them into the dough like jewels. The scent, as it baked, was enough to stop me in my tracks: roasted garlic, sweet tomatoes, and the nutty warmth of bread meeting heat.

I stood by the oven and let myself smile for no particular reason. Sometimes joy arrives quietly, wrapped in the smell of something rising.

And here's the thing—please don’t straightjacket this dough. Think of it as a canvas, not a contract. Perhaps you’ll scatter it with olives and rosemary. Or layer it with thin coins of potato and crushed pink peppercorns. Shaved zucchini? A smear of anchovy paste? The dough won’t mind. It welcomes all with open arms.

I sliced a triangle while it was still warm, the blade gliding through the golden crust with a delicate crunch. Steam curled up like a sigh, scented with roasted garlic and thyme, wrapping itself around me like a familiar jumper. The tomatoes—once bright and pert—had collapsed into themselves, sunken and sultry, their skins wrinkled and edges sticky with caramel. They clung to the dough as if they’d always belonged there, little pockets of sweet-savoury joy.

The crust crackled as I broke it apart. Not loudly, but like the gentle snapping of a dry twig underfoot on a forest walk. Beneath, the crumb was open and airy, shot through with tiny tunnels where steam had danced during baking. It was tender to the bite—light as a cloud but with just enough chew to satisfy.

The first mouthful was almost indecent. Warm olive oil, now part of the bread itself, coated my lips. The tang of the tomato hit next—bright, summery, almost jammy from its time in the oven. A flicker of garlic lingered at the back of the tongue, rounded out by the grassy depth of good oil and the faintest hum of black pepper. The edges had fried in the oil at the base of the pan, forming a golden lace of crispness, like the frilly hem of a well-worn apron.

I tore off another piece, this one glistening where oil had pooled in a shallow dimple. It had caught a few mustard seeds from the marinade, which popped slightly between the teeth. The oregano had turned dusky in the heat—less green, more earthy—and its perfume clung to the bread like a whisper of the Mediterranean.

It was, quite honestly, too good to share. But I did. Begrudgingly. The kind of thing that makes you want to tear chunks off with your fingers, still hot, and eat them standing up at the kitchen counter, licking your fingertips and chasing crumbs with a sip of chilled wine.

The kind of thing that makes you fall in love with tomatoes all over again.

If you have a garden, take your plate outside. Feel the grass underfoot. Let the sun warm your face. Listen to the breeze flirt with the trees and the bees hum softly nearby. Sometimes, that’s all we need—a square of bread, a ripe tomato, and the reminder that quiet days are not empty. They’re full.

What Is Focaccia? A Love Letter to Italy’s Golden Loaf

Focaccia (pronounced foh-KAH-chyah, darling, not fuh-KAH-shuh) is Italy’s answer to what happens when dough meets olive oil and they fall madly in love in a hot oven. Somewhere between pizza and cloud, it’s a flatbread baked until golden and dimpled like a weathered face that’s spent its life smiling in the sun.

I first met focaccia in Pula, on the Istrian Peninsula, where the olive oil is green enough to call itself a vegetable and old women teach you to bake without ever writing a thing down. It was summer. The grapes were heavy on the vine, the air thick with salt and lavender, and a tomato practically fell into my hand as I walked through a garden. You don’t forget a focaccia like that—it was crisp on the bottom, soft in the middle, and good enough to make a grown man weep into his wine.

Why Chefs Love Focaccia (Hint: It’s All About the Texture)

If you’ve ever seen a chef smile at a tray of bread like it’s a newborn baby, chances are it’s focaccia. It’s a chef’s dream:

High hydration makes it open-crumbed and tender.
Olive oil at the base gives it that addictive fried-edge crunch.
It’s wildly forgiving. Unlike croissants, focaccia doesn’t need backbreaking labor or tears. Just time—and a decent drizzle of oil.

It’s also a blank canvas. A stage for toppings. A playground for experimentation. I've seen chefs top it with grapes and gorgonzola, mortadella and pistachio cream, even thin-sliced potatoes with rosemary and a whisper of truffle oil. Show-offs, yes—but delicious.

Why Guests Can’t Get Enough Focaccia (Especially the Corner Piece)

Let’s be honest. The corner is the prize. It’s the bit where the oil gathers, the crust caramelizes, and the salt clings like a stubborn ex. Guests go feral for that square. They fight politely with forks and eyes.

Warm focaccia, served in thick slabs with a glass of something cold—wine, lemonade, or a spritz if you’re being naughty—is food theatre. Tear it, dip it, soak it in sauce, or toast it the next day with a fried egg on top. It never complains.

Focaccia History: Ancient, Unfussy, and Perfectly Salty

Focaccia’s roots go back to the Etruscans (around 200 BCE), who knew a thing or two about flatbread and communal ovens. Its name is from the Latin focus, meaning “hearth”—which is precisely where it belongs: baked in fire and shared.

Over time, different regions gave it their own flair:

Liguria: Where the focaccia is thinner, saltier, and so oily it could slide off the plate.
Puglia: A heartier version often topped with cherry tomatoes and olives.
Rome: Where it shows up as pizza bianca—a close cousin, delicious and arrogant.

And while it’s a proud Italian creation, it’s been adopted globally. You’ll find it in Michelin-starred kitchens and humble cafés. I once ate focaccia on a park bench with a wedge of sheep’s cheese and a tomato so ripe it gave up trying to hold its shape. Perfection.

Tips for the Perfect Focaccia at Home

A few secrets from the old woman in Pula—and my own mistakes:

Don’t be afraid of water. A high-hydration dough (up to 80%) gives that silky, airy crumb.
Use good olive oil. Not the dusty bottle from last Christmas. Use something fruity, grassy, peppery—something you’d dip your finger into when no one’s watching.
Let it rise slowly. This isn’t fast food. Give it five to six hours. Read a book. Water the garden. Let time do the heavy lifting.
Use your fingertips, not your palms. Dimpling is a gentle business. Think “lover,” not “jackhammer.”
Be generous with salt. Salt makes it sing. Maldon flakes or a coarse sea salt, sprinkled before baking, create little pockets of salinity that pop on the tongue like fireworks.

The Last Crumb: Why We Keep Coming Back

Focaccia is comfort without apology. It’s the loaf you bake when you’re tired of trying to impress anyone but yourself. It’s what you bring to the table when the people you love are nearby, and the wine is open, and the only question is whether to have a second piece or a third.

So, make it messy. Make it yours. Eat it hot, cold, toasted, or torn straight from the pan. But whatever you do—don’t skip the corner.

A sensory-rich tribute to homemade focaccia—crisp, airy, and soaked in olive oil. Discover why chefs and guests adore this Italian flatbread, plus easy tips, fun facts, and irresistible variations.

Ingredients:

For the Dough

3 ⅔ cups bread flour
5 teaspoons instant yeast
1 teaspoon sugar
2 1/2 cups cool, room temperature water
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons kosher salt

For the Tomato Topping

1 lb cherry tomatoes, sliced in half
4 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons dried oregano
4 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced
1½ teaspoons kosher salt
¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
(Optional: a handful of briny black olives)

INSTRUCTIONS:

The Method

Begin with the dough. In the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the flour, yeast, and sugar. Set the mixer to low and slowly pour in the water. As it begins to come together, increase the speed to medium and mix for 5 minutes. Cover the bowl loosely with plastic wrap and let it rest for 10 minutes—just enough time for the flour to drink in the water and for the gluten to begin its quiet work.

After the rest, add the salt and mix again on medium speed for another 5 minutes. The dough will be soft, almost shyly reluctant to hold a shape, but that’s precisely what we want.

Take a large bowl—generous is the word here—and pour in 2 tablespoons of olive oil. With a rubber spatula, ease the dough into the bowl. Don’t rush it. Let it slip in slowly. Dab a bit of the oil over the top with your fingertips, gently, like patting a baby’s head. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let rise for 5½ to 6 hours. It will grow languorously, almost dreamily, into a bubbly, airy mass.

While the dough rises, turn to the tomatoes. In a large bowl, whisk together the olive oil and oregano. If the mood takes you, add a splash of good vinegar—a dark, syrupy balsamic works beautifully here. Drop in the bashed garlic clove, then tumble in the cherry tomatoes. Mash them gently with your hands or the back of a fork—just enough to release their juice and seeds. Let them lounge in this marinade for a few hours at room temperature, soaking up every bit of herb and oil.

When ready to bake, preheat the oven to 500°F (260°C). Place a baking steel or stone on the middle rack if you have one—it will give the base a glorious golden crunch.

Take a 9x13-inch baking pan or cast-iron skillet and mist it lightly with cooking spray. Pour in 3 tablespoons of olive oil. With patience and care, coax the dough from the bowl into the pan. It will stretch and sigh its way down. Gently nudge it to the edges—no need to force it.

Now the magic. Spoon the mashed tomatoes over the top, leaving their juice and seeds in the bowl for now. Scatter over a few olives if using. Let the dough rest, uncovered, for 20 minutes. It will puff up slightly, taking the tomatoes into its warm embrace.

Drizzle with the remaining olive oil. Sprinkle with a touch more oregano, a pinch of salt, and a good grind of black pepper.

Bake for 20 minutes, or until the top is golden and the edges pull away from the pan. The scent in your kitchen should be heady by now—sweet tomatoes, garlic, and warm bread mingling like old friends.

Let the focaccia cool in the pan for 5 minutes, then lift it out and cool further on a wire rack for 30. It’s worth the wait.

When ready to serve, use a serrated knife and a gentle sawing motion. Better still, tear it with your hands. This is bread that doesn’t mind a bit of mess.