Why British Bakers Are Obsessed With Panettone

The bread that breaks bakers

Panettone looks, from a distance, like something a confident home baker might attempt one Christmas. Tall, domed, wrapped in paper — surely just an enriched dough? Spend five minutes talking to anyone who has tried to make it seriously and that illusion dissolves. This is one of the most technically demanding things in all of baking. The failures are legendary: dense loaves, collapsed crowns, a greasy crumb that suggests the butter never properly incorporated. Even experienced pastry professionals have spent entire seasons producing nothing worth serving.

The difficulty is structural. Panettone relies on a natural leavening culture — a lievito madre, or mother yeast — that must be maintained with near-daily feeding, kept at precise temperatures, and brought to exactly the right level of activity before it ever meets the dough. This is not the casual sourdough starter that can sit in a fridge and be revived on a whim. A lievito madre is a serious, living responsibility. Some bakers have kept the same culture alive for years, refreshing it on a fixed schedule the way a farmer tends livestock.

What the dough actually demands

The process unfolds over multiple days. A first dough — primo impasto — ferments overnight. A second — secondo impasto — is built on top of it the following morning, with eggs, sugar, butter, and fruit or chocolate worked in by stages. The gluten structure must be strong enough to hold all that enrichment without tearing, yet delicate enough to produce the characteristic open, feathery crumb that pulls apart in long threads. Getting the balance right requires an understanding of fermentation that goes well beyond standard bread-making.

The final proof can last the better part of a day. When the panettone reaches the oven, the risk is not over: the dome must rise cleanly above the paper mould, and the loaves must be hung upside down to cool — on skewers through their bases — so the delicate structure sets without collapsing under its own weight. Misjudge that step and a morning's work folds in on itself.

Britain's panettone bakers

Against all of this, a small number of British bakers have decided to take panettone seriously — not as a novelty, not as a shortcut. These are people running proper slow-dough operations, managing their lievito madre year-round, producing loaves that hold their own against Italian benchmarks.

Part of the draw is the craft challenge itself: panettone cannot be faked or rushed. Industrial producers use a cocktail of additives and commercial yeasts to approximate the texture, but anyone working with a live culture and a genuine multi-day process can taste the difference. The flavour from a well-managed natural ferment is complex — mildly tangy, deeply buttery, with a clean finish that keeps the richness from feeling heavy — in a way that a fast dough never achieves.

These British makers tend to work in small batches, which suits the process. Panettone baked in the hundreds rather than the thousands is easier to monitor through each stage, and bakers can respond to how their culture is performing in a given week rather than following a fixed industrial schedule. Several have described treating the lievito madre as a collaborator — something they learn from season to season.

How to eat it well

A good panettone deserves better than being sliced straight from the bag on Christmas morning. Italian tradition calls for tearing it into generous wedges rather than pressing a blade through it — the crumb is designed to pull. It is eaten at room temperature, often with something sweet and sparkling to drink, or alongside strong coffee. The day after, when the crumb has firmed slightly, a light toasting works well.

The classic filling is candied citrus peel and raisins, and in the hands of a baker using quality fruit this combination is far more interesting than it sounds. The citrus should be bright and distinct, not cloying; the raisins plump with moisture absorbed during the long ferment. Chocolate versions — chips or a rich crema — have grown popular, and when the base dough is right, they work. What does not work is a panettone where the filling is the only thing worth tasting.

Finding the serious ones

British-made panettone worth seeking out tends to appear from late autumn onwards, sold through bakers' own websites, at farmers' markets, or through independent delis. Production is limited by the nature of the process — there is a ceiling on how many loaves a small team can bring through a days-long schedule. It is worth contacting makers early in the season; some take pre-orders. Given the commitment that goes into each loaf, that feels entirely reasonable.