Every foodie in San Francisco, it seems, has a favorite kind of focaccia from Liguria Bakery. Some will defend to the death the honor of the rectangles dimpled with green onions, others the loaves thickly speckled with rosemary leaves. The plain focaccia toasts up into a great sandwich bread. The olive is ridiculous topped with summer's freshest tomatoes and slices of fresh mozzarella. But we like best to snack on what the bakery calls "pizza focaccia."
Baked in an ancient brick oven by the Soracco family, who has owned Liguria for 101 years, the focaccia is deftly sliced, wrapped in white butcher paper, and tied with twine. But when you unwrap the bread, that's when things get messy. Slathered in a thick tomato sauce and freckled with green onions that have wilted in the heat, the bread has a Midas-like ability to turn everything that touches it crimson. Your fingers. Your lips. The napkins you quickly run out of, and then your shirt. Stains be damned, it's impossible to stop eating it — the puckered, inch-thick bread is so puffy, so soft, the richness of the olive oil in the dough cut with the tangy tomato and the occasional bite of onion. Liguria's other focaccias you bring to parties to impress your host. The pizza focaccia, you eat for yourself.