Ciao.
We bake Italian focaccia in Kampala. That is the whole idea.
The dough is slow. Very slow. It sits there doing apparently nothing for hours while we keep an eye on it, then it goes in the oven and comes out with a crust that cracks and a middle that stays soft. There is no faster way. We looked.
We fill it with the real thing. Parma ham, mortadella, stracchino, burrata, pesto, fresh mozzarella. Italian ingredients, not Italian-sounding ones. A sandwich is only as good as what is inside it, and that is not a corner we are willing to cut.
Pizza too, red base or white. Tiramisù, made here, usually gone by the evening. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
We started in Muyenga. We tiled a counter in red, hung up a sign, put a bar in the garden and left the door open. It worked, so we are doing it again somewhere else in Kampala soon.









