Sfogliatella

The sfogliatella riccia is built from a single sheet of dough rolled out several metres long and as thin as paper, smeared with lard, wound into a tight cylinder, rested overnight, sliced into discs, and then pushed out by hand, thumbs turning, into a hollow cone. The fan of dozens of separate leaves you see when it comes out of the oven is not decoration; it is the mechanical consequence of that roll.

The sfogliatella frolla is a round, smooth shortcrust shell holding the identical filling. It is not the cheap version or a shortcut: it is a parallel pastry, soft where the other is crisp, and it has as many defenders in Naples as the riccia does.

The filling is the part nobody photographs and the part that decides everything: semolina cooked in milk until stiff, sieved sheep's ricotta, sugar, egg, small cubes of candied orange peel, cinnamon and vanilla.

The first sensation is noise. A fresh riccia shatters, sends flakes down your front, and gives way to a warm, dense, slightly grainy filling that tastes of orange peel, cinnamon and sheep's milk. It is sweet but not cloying: the ricotta keeps a savoury edge and the semolina gives it body rather than smoothness.

The layers themselves taste of lard, which sounds off-putting and is exactly right: it fries the leaves from the inside and gives a savoury depth that butter does not.

The frolla is a different experience: no crunch, a short buttery biscuit shell, and the filling more prominent because nothing is competing with it. People who find the riccia too aggressive often prefer it, and in Naples that is a legitimate position rather than a confession.

Eat it warm, standing up, within minutes of buying it. That is not romanticism: heat keeps the layers separate and the filling loose, and within three hours a riccia has lost most of its crispness as moisture migrates from the filling into the pastry.

If you are reviving a bought one, five minutes in a 180C oven does more than any other treatment. Never microwave it, and never refrigerate it, because fridge humidity kills the layers in half an hour and the filling picks up smells.

Making the riccia at home is a serious undertaking: you need a pasta machine to roll a sheet several metres long and paper-thin, a twelve-hour rest for the rolled cylinder, and the hand skill to open each disc into a cone. The frolla is within reach of anyone who can make a tart.

The filling is worth making the day before either way. Boil 500ml milk with a pinch of salt, rain in 150g fine semolina while whisking, cook five minutes until it pulls away from the pan, cool, then beat in 250g drained sheep's ricotta, 150g sugar, one egg, 80g diced candied orange, cinnamon and vanilla.

A riccia is at its peak for about an hour. By three hours the leaves have gone quiet, and by the next day the pastry is a different object: the filling is wet and the layers, which sat crisp because they were dry, have drawn moisture out of it from the inside. Keep it at room temperature in a rigid container left slightly open, and not in the refrigerator, where the damp air softens the leaves within half an hour and the ricotta takes on the smell of everything else on the shelf. Five minutes in a 180 degree oven drives the water back off and restores most of the crackle.

The frolla is far more forgiving, since a shortcrust shell has no layers to lose: two days in a closed box at room temperature and it gives up almost nothing. Freezing works, but only before baking. Shaped and raw, sfogliatelle hold two months in the freezer and go straight into a 200 degree oven for about thirty minutes without thawing; baked first and then frozen, the leaves come back limp. For anything boxed and dated, follow the bakery.

Two pastries share the name. The riccia is the fan of leaves; the frolla is the same filling inside a smooth shortcrust shell, and it is the one most bakeries abroad find easier to hold. On a riccia, count the leaves: they should be many, thin and clearly separate, not three or four thick bands, and the colour should run deep amber to almost scorched at the outer tips. Pale, evenly golden shells are underbaked and stay chewy in the middle. It should crackle when you bite and leave a shower of crumbs down your front.

The filling is the second check. Semolina gives it a faint grain rather than a smooth cream, real candied orange shows up as visible cubes instead of an even orange paste, and the cinnamon arrives late and quietly. Heat is the last signal and the best one: Neapolitan bakeries keep them in a warm case and hand them over warm. In American Italian bakeries the outsized lobster tail is a different pastry built on the same shell. Expect 4 to 7 dollars each.

In the US, Italian-American bakeries in New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia and Boston sell them daily at roughly 4 to 6 dollars each; many also sell the lobster tail, which is a different pastry despite the shared shell. Ask for them warmed if the counter has an oven: most will oblige, and it transforms the thing.

In the UK, Italian bakeries and delicatessens in London and a handful of other cities carry them at 3.50 to 5 pounds each, usually made in the morning. Frozen unbaked sfogliatelle from Italian importers are the most reliable option and often better than a shop-bought pastry that has sat for six hours.

Whatever you buy, look for many thin visible layers rather than three or four thick ones, deep amber colour with slightly scorched leaf tips, and a filling with a visible grain and identifiable cubes of orange peel. Pale, uniform pastry means underbaking; a smooth, very sweet, uniformly orange filling means a factory mix.

Naples. Three historic addresses cover the ground without overlapping: the via Toledo shop associated with the Pintauro name, the pastry shop on piazza San Domenico Maggiore in the old centre, and the bakery behind the central station that runs its ovens all day and sells them hot. The last of these is the only place where you reliably meet a sfogliatella in its ideal state, minutes out of the oven.

The Galleria Umberto I and the bars along via Chiaia hold a high average standard with shorter queues.

For the Santarosa you have to go to the coast: Conca dei Marini, where it was born, and Amalfi, where a historic seafront pasticceria revived it. The festival at Conca dei Marini in early August is the moment to be there.

One practical tip that changes everything: ask whether they are hot. In Naples this is an ordinary question, not a demanding one.