In a city known for its enduring relationship with bread, the rosetta holds a distinct place. This puffed-up, crusty roll with a near-hollow center is a true Roman original. The name “rosetta” comes from its shape, which resembles a rose (rosa in Italian). Traditionally, rosette are made using a stamp that presses a petaled indentation into the top of the dough before baking in a steam-injected oven to achieve its signature structure: a crisp, shattering crust and chewy interior. When done right, the inside is almost entirely hollow—more shell than crumb—just waiting to be filled.

Stamped rolls like the kaisersemmel had been known in parts of Italy since the nineteenth century, particularly in the north under Habsburg influence. Roman bakers eventually adopted and adapted the technique, producing a local version by the early twentieth century. These rolls were denser, with only modest internal air pockets. It wasn’t until the 1970s and especially the 1980s—thanks to advances in baking technology like steam-deck ovens and a shift toward lighter, crustier rolls for panini—that the rosetta romana as we know it today was perfected. That exaggerated puff and the barely-there interior may be relatively recent innovations, but they quickly became forno fixtures.

Few places in the city still make rosette the old-fashioned way—by hand, with time, technique, and attention. Industrial versions, sold in supermarkets and mass-market bakeries, are often dense and flabby, lacking the delicacy and character of the originals. That’s why visiting Forno Angelo Colapicchioni in Prati feels like stepping into a time capsule. This family-run bakery near the Vatican makes rosette daily, from scratch.

I went to see them made there, drawn by the irresistible pull of nostalgia and gluten. There’s no stamping machine in my own kitchen, so recreating them at home isn’t in the cards. But that’s almost the point: rosette are about the Roman bakery experience, not the journey of making them yourself. They belong to the city, to the counter at the back of the bakery where the staff slice them open and stuff them to order.

You can ask for any filling you like, but prosciutto and mozzarella is my go-to: salty, milky, fat and lean, cradled in a bread roll so light it seems to levitate. Go try for yourself, but keep a cold beverage handy. Rosette may be my favorite Roman sandwich bread, but that crust splinters like edible shrapnel. Believe me when I tell you, it’s Rome’s most worthwhile choking hazard.