What Pope Francis’s Favorite Foods Reveal About His Legacy

Pope Francis passed away this morning, and in the hours since, many tributes have focused on his global influence, his religious leadership, and his politics. But there’s another layer—quieter, humbler, and more human.

It’s the food.

Because even as he shaped history, Francis never let go of the taste of home. He spoke often of empanadas, pastries, and mate. He condemned food waste as, in his words, “a snatching from the hands of the poor.” He hosted annual Vatican meals for the unhoused.

He didn’t crave rare wines or elaborate state dinners. He wanted to sit in a Roman pizzeria and eat quietly. That image stuck out because it cut against what we expect from power. And maybe that’s why people loved him—not because he rejected comfort, but because he reframed it. For Francis, comfort wasn’t wealth. It was warm bread. Something to be shared.

In a time when so many public figures feel out of reach—or carefully managed—Francis’s relationship with food felt different. It wasn’t performative. It was grounding. His death doesn’t just mark the end of a papacy. It reminds us of the everyday rituals that shape how we connect, how we care, and how we remember.

A Familiar Appetite

When Francis became pope in 2013, he brought with him not just a shift in tone—but a deep connection to the meals that shaped him.

There was the mate he drank daily, often gifted to him by pilgrims from South America. The empanadas he recalled making with his grandmother in Buenos Aires. His fondness for chipa, the chewy Paraguayan cheese bread. The alfajoresfilled with dulce de leche.

Even in Dilexit Nos, his spiritual letter of farewell, he returned to food—not metaphorically, but literally—recalling the act of baking pastries with his grandmother as a gesture of care and continuity.

These weren’t shared for relatability points. He named them because they mattered.

When Food Is a Message

For many, Francis had a gift for making the personal feel universal—and nowhere was that clearer than in how he spoke about hunger and food justice.

He regularly called food waste “a sin,” urging world leaders to reframe food security not just as logistics, but as moral duty. On the World Day of the Poor, he didn’t just offer prayers—he sat down for lunch, breaking bread with hundreds of people living on the margins.

His message was clear: food wasn’t a luxury—it was something no one should be denied.

Mercy Made Visible

Francis didn’t just talk about hunger—he acted on it. In 2016, he established the World Day of the Poor, a Vatican-wide initiative that included meals, medical clinics, and outreach for the unhoused. His commitment wasn’t performative—it was consistent, visible, and deeply rooted in how he framed mercy.

In a 2013 weekly audience in St. Peter’s Square, dedicated to United Nations World Environment Day, Francis addressed what he referred to as a “culture of waste” fueled by consumerism and excess.

“Throwing away food is like stealing from the table of the poor and the hungry,” he said. “This culture of waste has made us insensitive—even to the waste and disposal of food, which is even more despicable when many families around the world suffer from hunger and malnutrition.”

His words weren’t abstract—they were pointed. “Consumerism has led us to become used to an excess and daily waste of food, to which, at times, we are no longer able to give a just value.”

The Taste of Home Still Matters

Francis may have led the Church from Rome, but his tastebuds never left Argentina. And that matters—because the taste of home, the meals that raise us and restore us, are more than preferences. They’re anchors.

Even The Vatican Cookbook, which includes recipes tied to his favorite dishes, carries the same spirit. It doesn’t read like a glossy PR project. It reads like a collection of remembered meals passed between families, shared in small moments.

Whether it was bagna càuda from Italy or a scoop of dulce de leche gelato—like the “Hallelujah” flavor launched in his honor in Rome—it wasn’t about indulgence. It was about joy, hospitality, and grounding in place.

What Carries Forward

As we reflect on Pope Francis’s death, it’s important to zoom out—to understand his influence in full, to see the historic weight of his role.

To the man who asked for pizza. He wasn’t rejecting tradition—he was showing us that simplicity can carry reverence, too.

Who drank mate every morning. A ritual that tied him to millions of people who never met him but knew that flavor.

Who believed food could be an act of mercy. Not just on holidays or holy days, but in every act of sharing.