She showed Julia how to press the ricotta through a fine-mesh sieve with a wooden spoon. “This is the secret,” she said. “If your ricotta is wet, your cheesecake will be sad. We want creamy, not weepy.”

And so, the recipe lived on—not just in a cookbook, but in the hands of another generation. Because for Lidia Bastianich, food isn’t just about eating. It’s about remembering who you are and who you’re feeding.

Buon appetito.

Lidia buttered a 9-inch springform pan, then dusted it with fine breadcrumbs, not flour. “Breadcrumbs,” she told Julia, “give a toasty, Italian crunch. Flour is for cakes that are afraid of texture.”

She whisked the cocoa, flour, and salt together in a small bowl, then gently folded them into the ricotta mixture. Finally, she stirred in the chopped chocolate. “Not melted,” she noted. “Little chunks. They melt in the oven into fudgy pockets.”

Julia took a bite and closed her eyes.

The batter went into the springform pan. She smoothed the top, gave it a gentle tap on the counter to release air bubbles, and placed it in a preheated 350°F oven. After 20 minutes, she lowered the heat to 300°F without opening the door. Total baking time: about 70–80 minutes, until the center was just barely set—still a little wobbly, like a quiet laugh.

Lidia Bastianich often says that the best recipes aren’t written—they’re remembered. And for her, no dessert brought back more vivid memories than the Torta di Ricotta e Cioccolato from her childhood in Istria.

When it finally emerged, cooled, and was sliced, the texture was extraordinary: dense yet airy, creamy yet firm. The chocolate had formed a marbled, almost brownie-like swirl near the bottom, while the ricotta kept everything light. A dusting of powdered sugar, a few fresh berries, and that was it.

The Chocolate Ricotta Cheesecake of Nonna’s Table