We’re used to mapping the world by continents, dividing the globe into rigid geopolitical blocks. But to really understand the complex reality behind each border, it helps to use a different kind of map—one you can eat. For most of human history, the Mediterranean has existed as its own intercultural space, where people and languages from different lands blur the lines of modern borders. And nowhere is this shared regional identity more beautifully preserved than in Mediterranean kitchens.
Follow the Italian Tyrrhenian coast, cross the sea to the shores of North Africa, and then wind your way up to the Côte d’Azur, and you’ll find a culinary pattern that connects diverse societies: a simple batter of chickpea flour, water, and olive oil. Baked in blazing wood ovens or deep-fried in pans, it changes its name at every port, but its soul stays the same—a golden, sometimes crispy, sometimes soft proof that the peoples of the Mediterranean share a single history that defies modern political boundaries.
I first noticed the outlines of this alternative map in Tuscany. Arriving in Pisa on a foggy winter night after a long road trip, I slipped into the narrow medieval alleys around Borgo Stretto. Just past a quiet corner, the neon glow of Pizzeria Il Montino offered a sign of life. I quickly realized the crowd hadn’t gathered for pizza: nearly everyone was queuing for cecina, a golden chickpea pancake steaming from the oven. The cook dusted my slice with a generous crack of black pepper and handed it over. It was love at first bite.
A few miles down the coast lies Livorno, and I remembered a friend who had recommended the “5 e 5” (cinque e cinque) from a place called Gagarin. It’s basically the same as cecina, but watch out—it’s forbidden to call it that in Livorno. The name comes from its historical price: five lire for the bread, and five for the chickpea pancake. Here it’s served as a sandwich filling inside a round loaf. Besides pepper, you might add aubergine marinated in vinegar, garlic, and chilli flakes. Both Livorno and Pisa claim to have invented the dish, fueling a fierce rivalry that spans sport, politics, and food.
Also on the Tyrrhenian coast lies Liguria, home to another sibling street food: farinata. According to legend, it was accidentally invented during the Battle of Meloria in 1284. Genoa defeated Pisa, and on the way back home, the Genoese ships ran into a sea storm. Barrels of oil and chickpea flour spilled and mixed with salt water. After letting this accidental mixture dry under the sun, the sailors ate it and found it surprisingly delicious—a true blessing in disguise.
The recipe also found its way to Italy’s islands. In Sardinia, especially around Sassari, it took on the Genoese dialect name fainè. While the classic oven-baked preparation stays the same, Sardinians love to upgrade it with dried sausage and onions. Over in Sicily, the story has a twist. The base recipe is nearly identical, but in Palermo, they deep-fry the chickpea mixture to create golden panelle, which are then stuffed into soft sesame rolls to make pane e panelle. This crunchier, crispier version is best served with a squeeze of lemon to cut through the heaviness of the frying oil.
From Sicily to North Africa is just a short step. In the Algerian city of Oran, karantika emerged under Spanish influence during the colonial period. The Algerian version differs from the Italian one: by adding eggs and milk to the batter and baking it at intense heat, you get a texture that’s incredibly creamy on the inside and beautifully crusty on the outside. Naturally, the chickpea trail continues to northern Morocco, specifically Tangier. Here the dish goes by the name kalinti, and its preparation closely mirrors the Algerian method. Street vendors serve kalinti piping hot, traditionally finished with a generous sprinkle of cumin and salt.A sprinkle of salt and cumin.
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Tangier, Morocco, home to the kalinti – traditionally finished with a sprinkle of salt and cumin. Photograph: imageBROKER/Alamy
Interestingly, after settling in Gibraltar – where it’s called calentita in Spanish – this food tradition mostly skips the Spanish coast, except for Cádiz, where the magical batter is fried and known as paniza gaditana. But if we follow the trail to France, specifically Marseille, we find panisse. A key stop is Chez Magali, in the northern neighborhood of L’Estaque: Italian immigrants who came for industrial work brought their chickpea know-how, which locals then adapted. The Magali kiosk still serves fried, thick, wonderfully crusty panisses, meant to be eaten right by the sea.
We’re nearing the end of the chickpea trail, but there are a few important stops as we head east toward the Côte d’Azur. In Toulon, the recipe is the same as its regional cousins, but it’s called cade and is traditionally baked in a wood-fired oven. Finally, in Nice, the dish undergoes its ultimate transformation, becoming peppery socca. Here, it’s poured much thinner, giving it beautifully crispy edges and a roasted surface.
What clearer proof could you ask for that the Mediterranean is its own distinct world? One that crosses continental and national borders. It reminds me of the Mucem Museum in Marseille, which makes a strong case that for most of human history, traveling across the Mediterranean from port to port was far easier than going inland from Mediterranean cities. The sea was once a highway, not a barrier.
Migration has always been the norm across the Mediterranean, in all directions, before Europe turned the sea into a heavily policed border. It’s no surprise that panisse (and pizza) became a huge part of Marseille’s cuisine, for example: migration from poor Italian coastal cities was so large that by the 1950s, 40% of the city’s population was Italian.
The chickpea trail is edible proof of this ancient network. Whether it’s peppery socca in Nice, kalinti in Tangier, or a slice of cecina in a Pisan alley, you’re tasting the same basic idea. Long after modern borders were drawn, this simple batter of chickpea and oil remains a living reminder that these shores share a single, borderless soul: a little maritime, a little mercantile, and always delicious.
Federico De Blasi is an Italian food writer based in Barcelona
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Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs based on the idea that tracing a snack around the Mediterranean reveals how arbitrary modern borders are
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What does tracing a snack around the Mediterranean even mean
It means following the history and ingredients of a simple foodlike hummus baklava or falafelacross different countries You see the same dish made in Greece Turkey Lebanon and Egypt each claiming it as their own even though modern borders didnt exist when the recipe was created
2 Why would a snack prove that borders are absurd
Because the snack doesnt respect the lines on a map The same recipe spices and cooking methods exist on both sides of a border It shows that people trade and culture have been flowing freely across this region for thousands of years long before countries like Syria or Israel were drawn
3 Can you give a simple example
Sure Take hummus Its made from chickpeas tahini lemon and garlic You find it in Israel Palestine Lebanon Syria and Egypt All these countries argue about who invented it But the ingredients have been grown and eaten across the entire Levant region for centuries The border is just a modern line drawn over an ancient food culture
4 Is this a political argument or just about food
Its mainly about culture and history but it has political implications When a country claims a dish as national it can ignore that their neighbors have been eating it just as long It challenges the idea that cultures are neatly separated by political lines
AdvancedLevel Questions
5 How does this concept challenge the idea of national cuisine
It shows that national cuisine is often a modern invention A country like Greece might claim tzatziki but youll find a very similar yogurtcucumber dip in Turkey and Iran Borders try to lock culture into a box but food proves that cultures are fluid and overlapping
6 Whats a specific historical trade route that explains this
The
