Eating in Palermo: Lunch on a Bench with Sfincione and Setteveli

A spring escape from Milan leads to a simple but unforgettable lunch on a sun-warmed bench in Palermo—one slice of sfincione, one forkful of Setteveli.

Trays of Sfincione at panificio Graziano in Palermo

It was the kind of spring day that makes you loosen your sleeves and forget where you’ve come from. The sun in Palermo had already begun its slow ascent, warming the golden stone façades and coaxing perfume from jasmine-draped balconies. I had left behind Milan’s pace and precision for a long weekend in the south—flying first to my quiet house in Noto, the one with the olive grove and long, drowsy mornings. But that morning, on impulse, I got in the car and drove north.

Palermo always feels like a city that breathes in a deeper register. Louder, older, messier—and completely uninterested in changing for anyone. As I entered the city, it opened up around me in baroque drama and market chatter, in peeling stucco and flowering vines, alive with the sharp salt of the sea and the smoke of roasting meat.

I walked past bakeries and basilicas, weaving through the morning crowds. Vendors in the markets called out in dialect over crates of swordfish and oranges, artichokes and ricotta, their cries punctuated by the clang of delivery vans and mopeds. The city pulsed with life, and I followed it—not with an agenda, but with appetite.

Just before noon, I arrived at Panificio Graziano, a family-run bakery tucked away on Via del Granatiere. There was a line, of course—there always is. Graziano’s sfincione has taken on near-mythical status in Palermo. Thick, fragrant, and slow-risen, it’s a dish rooted in time and memory.

The process is unwavering: the dough is left to rise until airy but substantial; onions and tomatoes are cooked down into a sweet, almost jammy confit; sharp caciocavallo cheese is grated generously over the top; and just a whisper of anchovy is tucked in—not enough to declare itself too overtly, but definitely enough to deepen the flavor. It’s baked in enormous trays, then cut in square slices with a decisive hand.

Some locals call it the best sfincione in the city. Perhaps even on the island. Something I noticed in the bakery is that the Graziano team doesn’t boast. The sfincione does the talking.

I took my warm, paper-wrapped slice and wandered toward the harbor, where I found a stone bench bathed in midday sun. The sea was still, the masts of small boats leaning into the breeze, and Palermo moved at its usual rhythm around me—children laughing, a man selling postcards, an older woman resting with her shopping beneath a palm.

And I sat. I bit in. The sfincione was everything I’d remembered, and more. The dough chewy and yielding, its edges caramelized. The topping rich and fragrant, sweet with onion and tomato, cut through by the sharpness of the cheese and the hint of anchovy. It was warm, messy, comforting, and honest.

Sfincione is more than street food. It’s one of Palermo’s edible signatures, with roots tracing back to the convents where Sicilian nuns prepared it for feast days. It has endured not for trendiness, but for truth. It’s food born from modesty and memory, meant to be

Slice of Setteveli cake at Pasticceria Cappello

eaten with your hands, while sitting somewhere sunny, with nothing urgent waiting for you.

Later that afternoon, I wandered inland, the city narrowing into quiet lanes and shaded courtyards. My destination was Pasticceria Cappello, a name spoken with reverence by Sicilian pastry lovers. Modest from the outside, it holds one of the island’s most iconic inventions within: the Setteveli.

Invented in Palermo in the late 1990s, Setteveli—literally, “seven veils”—is a modern classic. Seven exacting layers of hazelnut sponge, chocolate mousse, gianduja cream, and praline crunch, all covered in a gleaming mirror glaze. A cake as architectural as the Cappella Palatina, and just as unforgettable.

I ordered a slice and took a seat by the window. The first bite was sublime: crisp gave way to cream, bitter gave way to sweet. Each veil revealed itself slowly, gracefully. The glaze shimmered like lacquer, but the soul of the cake was warmth. There was something deeply human in its balance—refined, yes, but not pretentious. Just true.

As I lingered over the final spoonful, I thought about the strange pairing of the day's eating in Palermo: sfincione and Setteveli. One, eaten on a sun-warmed bench by the sea, the other in a quiet pasticceria with porcelain plates and silver forks. One rustic, one refined. And yet both utterly Sicilian. Both shaped by time, by place, by love.

That evening I drove south again, back toward Noto. In the passenger seat sat a paper-wrapped wedge of sfincione, and the faint smell of toasted hazelnut clinging to my coat. Outside my house, the olive trees waited—unchanged, unmoved, ancient.

Some days are made for remembering. Others for returning. But the very best ones? They carry both.