Trapizzino

Rome has been many things over the centuries—empire, church, cinema, tourist trap, and once, briefly, the setting of a fast-food renaissance. That last bit might sound hyperbolic until you meet the Trapizzino: part pizza, part sandwich, all Roman swagger. It’s what happens when street food stops pretending to be humble and instead shows up wearing a tailored jacket, asking if you’ve tried the oxtail stew.

Trapizzino is the edible brainchild of Stefano Callegari, a Roman pizzaiolo who, around 2008, decided that pizza bianca deserved more than just mortadella slapped on like an afterthought. He took a triangle of that pillowy Roman white pizza, cut it open like a pocket, and stuffed it with beloved traditional Roman stews and saucy classics. What emerged was an improbable street food innovation that feels like it should have existed forever, but somehow didn’t.

Now, a quick word about pizza bianca. This isn’t your average slice. Roman pizza bianca is a focaccia-adjacent affair: airy inside, crispy outside, slightly salted, olive-oiled to the point of indecency. It’s the sort of bread that doesn’t need anything, which makes it the perfect candidate for stuffing with everything. Enter the Trapizzino. It takes this holy carbohydrate and loads it with Roman kitchen royalty: pollo alla cacciatora, trippa alla romana, lingua in salsa verde, melanzane alla parmigiana. Every bite feels like a nonna is whispering softly in your ear, telling you you’re too skinny and should eat more.

The name itself is a hybrid—“tramezzino” (a crustless sandwich) and “pizza,” fused together with a wink. It’s Roman ingenuity at its mischievous best: take something elegant, wrap it in something rustic, and watch tourists queue like it’s the Vatican.

As for regional variations, Trapizzino is proudly Roman, and it doesn’t care who knows it. But like all delicious things, it didn’t stay put. In Milan, you might find it reinterpreted with saffron-laced risotto filling. In Naples, where every culinary move is judged with suspicion, it might get the local ragù treatment. In New York, it has crossed the Atlantic and sometimes gets filled with meatballs and marinara in a kind of Italian-American fever dream. But the soul of the Trapizzino still belongs to Rome, where it leans heavily into cucina povera: the “poor” dishes made with offal, scraps, and time-tested seasoning.

And this is what makes it special. It’s not just that it’s delicious. It’s not just that it’s handheld. It’s that it acts like a portal. You bite into a Trapizzino and you’re suddenly transported to a tiled Roman kitchen, sauce bubbling on the stove, someone cursing softly at the football match on TV. It reimagines heritage food as street food, without losing the dignity of either. It’s finger food with a PhD.

Now let’s talk drink. What do you pair with a Trapizzino? If you’re on a sun-scorched Roman street, sweating through your linen shirt, a cold Peroni or Menabrea will do the trick. Wine works too—a young Frascati for something white and citrusy, or a gutsy Cesanese if you’re matching the richer stuffings like coda alla vaccinara (that’s oxtail stew, if you’re not up on your offal). If you’re in Brooklyn pretending it’s Trastevere, a Negroni works for sheer attitude alone.

Food-wise, Trapizzino doesn’t need much in the way of company. But if you’re hosting a Roman-themed aperitivo, some fried zucchini blossoms, supplì (rice balls), and marinated artichokes would make a worthy entourage. It’s not a sit-down-and-use-cutlery kind of affair. Think rustic, boozy, standing up.

Now to the health portion of our programme—which, let’s face it, you probably weren’t asking for. But here it is anyway. Trapizzino, as with most Roman comfort food, is not diet cuisine. You’re eating slow-cooked meats, olive oil-soaked bread, and rich sauces. But here’s the good news: it’s made with actual food. Real ingredients. No fluorescent sauces or shrink-wrapped despair. A Trapizzino is honest. It doesn’t hide behind sugar or preservatives. It tells you upfront: I am a meal. I will be messy. You might need a nap after. And that’s beautiful.

Where can you find this portable slice of Romaness? The original Trapizzino shops are in Rome, naturally—Testaccio, Trastevere, Ponte Milvio. They’ve even expanded to Milan, Florence, and Turin, and across the ocean to New York City. If you’re not near one, you’re not out of luck. Independent bakers and Roman expats from Sydney to Toronto are giving it a go. But if all else fails, there’s always your own kitchen.

Here’s how to make it. It won’t be exactly like the original—for that, you’d need a Roman childhood, a weathered apron, and probably a scooter licence. But it will be close. And it will be magnificent.

Trapizzino with Chicken Cacciatore Filling Recipe

For the pizza bianca:

500g strong white bread flour
7g dry yeast or 25g fresh yeast
350ml water (lukewarm)
10g salt
2 tbsp olive oil (plus more for brushing)

Mix the flour and salt in a large bowl. Dissolve yeast in water, add to the flour, mix until shaggy. Add olive oil. Knead until smooth, about 10 minutes. Let it rise, covered, until doubled (about 1.5 to 2 hours).

Stretch it out on a well-oiled baking tray, about 2cm thick. Dimple it with your fingers. Let it rest another 30 minutes. Bake at 220°C for 20-25 minutes until golden. Let it cool. Cut into triangles. Slice each open like a pita pocket. Set aside.

For the chicken cacciatore:

4 chicken thighs (boneless, skin removed)
1 onion, sliced
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
400g tinned tomatoes
100ml dry white wine
Olive oil
Salt, pepper, thyme, bay leaf

Sauté onion and garlic in olive oil until soft. Add pepper, cook 5 mins. Add chicken, brown it. Pour in wine, let it reduce. Add tomatoes, herbs, salt and pepper. Simmer uncovered 40 minutes until thick. Shred the chicken into the sauce.

Spoon warm filling into the pizza bianca pockets. Serve with napkins and a knowing smile. Possibly a Negroni.

So there you have it—Rome in a triangle. Eat it standing up. Wear dark colours. Don’t apologise for the sauce on your chin. That’s how you know you’re doing it right.