Sourdough Focaccia with Rosemary and Sea Salt

Why Focaccia Is Made for Sharing

There is something quietly romantic about a tray of focaccia. In Liguria, where the finest versions come from, it is sold by the slab from small bakeries, wrapped in paper and eaten on harbour walls with salty fingers. It is not a delicate bread. It is generous, oily, fragrant with rosemary, and it asks to be torn rather than sliced. For a couple cooking at home, that is exactly the point: one tray, two people, a bowl of olives, a glass of something cold, and no ceremony whatsoever.

This version uses a sourdough starter instead of commercial yeast. That means a slower fermentation, which builds flavour and gives the crumb its airy chew. The reward is a deeply golden, crisp base — the part Italians guard jealously — and a soft, dimpled top that soaks up good olive oil. Start it on a Friday evening and you will be eating it on Saturday afternoon.

What You Will Need

You do not need much equipment, but a few things matter. A sturdy metal baking tin conducts heat far better than a flimsy one and gives you that crisp underside. A dough scraper helps enormously when the dough is wet and lively. Beyond that, a large bowl, a clean tea towel and a set of fingertips.

• 500g strong white bread flour, plus extra for dusting
• 375g lukewarm water (roughly 24C)
• 100g active sourdough starter, bubbly and well risen
• 10g fine sea salt
• 80ml extra virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
• 2 sprigs fresh rosemary, leaves picked
• 1 tsp flaky sea salt

The flour choice is worth a moment's thought. A strong white with around 12 to 13 per cent protein will give you the stretch you need. If you only have plain flour, the bread will still work, but expect a tighter crumb and a slightly less dramatic rise.

Mixing and Building Strength

Pour the water into a large bowl, add the starter and whisk until it disperses into a cloudy, faintly fizzy liquid. Tip in the flour and mix with a wet hand until no dry patches remain. Cover and leave for 45 minutes. This rest, sometimes called an autolyse, lets the flour hydrate fully and makes the next stage far easier.

Sprinkle the fine salt over the dough and squidge it in with wet fingers, folding and squeezing until it disappears. The dough will feel slippery at first, then suddenly cohesive. Now begin your folds. Every 30 minutes, take one edge of the dough, stretch it upwards and fold it into the centre. Work your way around the bowl four times. Repeat this four times in total, roughly two hours altogether. You will feel the dough tighten and resist as gluten develops.

After the final fold, cover the bowl and leave it at room temperature until it has risen by about half. At 19C this might take five or six hours; in a warm kitchen, three. Do not chase a doubling — overproofed dough collapses rather than dimples.

The Long, Cold Fermentation

Pour a generous 40ml of olive oil into your tin and tilt it so the base and sides are glossy. Scrape the dough in, then gently stretch it towards the corners with oiled hands. Do not fight it; if it springs back, wait ten minutes and try again. Cover the tin with a tea towel and slide it into the fridge.

Here comes the part that rewards patience. Leave it for at least 12 hours, and up to 36 if you want a sharper, more tangy loaf. The cold slows the fermentation to a crawl while enzymes continue working, deepening flavour and gently breaking down starches. It also means you can go to bed, go for a walk, or open a bottle of wine without watching the clock.

On baking day, take the tin out and leave it on the worktop for an hour or two. Meanwhile heat the oven to 230C conventional or 210C fan, with a shelf in the middle. A cold tin going into a hot oven is what creates that shattering base, so resist the urge to rush this final warm-up.

Dimpling, Topping and Baking

Oil your fingertips — properly, not a token dab — and press straight down through the dough to the tin, making dimples every couple of centimetres. You are not being delicate. You want those craters to catch oil and rosemary. Scatter over the rosemary leaves, pressing a few lightly into the dough, then sprinkle the flaky sea salt. Finish with a slow drizzle of olive oil across the top.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, turning the tin halfway if your oven has hot spots. The focaccia is ready when the top is burnished and patchy-golden rather than uniformly pale, and the base sounds hollow when you lift a corner with a palette knife. If the top browns before the centre firms up, drop the temperature by 10C and give it five more minutes.

Slide it onto a rack and wait. This is the hardest instruction in the recipe, but cutting too soon steams the crumb. Twenty minutes of patience is all it asks.

Serving It, and a Little Armchair Travel

Focaccia is at its best barely warm, torn into pieces and dunked into your very best olive oil, perhaps with a slick of balsamic. It is a natural partner for a chilled glass of Vermentino, all lemon zest and sea air, or a light, herby red such as a young Sangiovese. If you are marking an occasion, a dry sparkling wine works beautifully with the salt and rosemary.

What you have made is essentially the focaccia of Camogli or Recco, where it is still baked in wood-fired ovens and eaten in paper cones by the sea. If you ever find yourselves driving the Ligurian coast, stop in a small town, buy a slab and sit somewhere with a view of the water. Until then, this tray will do very nicely — torn between two, with the windows open and nowhere to be.