Not Full of Bologna

Culinary experience –

Bologna, Italy: It’s No Bologna.

“Eat your way through Bologna,” I mentioned the phrase in a prior blog, but aside from minimal sites and some decent shopping, that is pretty much all to do in Bologna, so that’s exactly what I did.

I stayed in a wonderful venue, which was really more like a private flat than a hostel, and served complimentary breakfast in the mornings.  I have found that in Europe, people eat more simply at breakfast: always a café and either a croissant or toast, possibly some jam or nutella, and maybe cereal or a yogurt, to accompany your espresso, but that’s about it.  Therefore, by the time lunch rolls around, I am starved, and it is never a good idea for me – or anyone – to search for a restaurant when hungry; 9 out of 10 times you will settle for a place that had you begun your restaurant-hunt earlier, you would not have chosen. 

For being renowned for delicious cuisine, it was terribly hard to find a luscious restaurant Bologna.  Most places I have traveled to thus far have had a surplus of “cafeterias,” which implies it is a self-serve establishment (translation: sub-par food – keep walking).  After too many twists around narrow allies, we finally stumbled across a charming outdoor patio with a sign that read the all too familiar words, “pizzeria,” so naturally decided to park it there for lunch.  Little did we know we were about to plunge into a food-coma of much more than pizza.

In Italy, all the bread served in restaurants is dry.  No other way to describe it, just dried out, sourdough bread.  I find this so ironic because in America, it is at the Italian restaurants where you find the delectable, warm, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth breadbasket.  Well, finally, in Bologna I caught my first break.  The bread slices were shaped as small, half-circles, served warm, and although were still slightly dry, with a sprinkle of olive oil, they were delicious.

Six girls and three breadbaskets later our first courses, antipasti, finally arrived.  My older brother, Tim, has always raved about the dish prosciutto and melon, something that did not exactly sound appetizing to me.   However, his judgment is spot-on with food so I knew I needed to try it.  Best. Decision. Ever.

The mixture of textures was unbeatable.  Sweet, soft and dense meets salty, chewy and lacelike.  Sounds bizarre but I can truly say it was one of the best delicacies I have ever enjoyed, and plan on ordering whenever I see it on the menu.  The finest prosciutto comes from northern and central Italy, so this dish was actually more expensive than my main course.  The freshness of the meat was impeccable and worth every cent.  It is important to know that when prosciutto is made, it is first salted and left alone for two months.  However, since it is salted at the beginning of the process the salt flavor is not overwhelming and tastes very natural.  There were four succulent pieces of honeydew, probably the equivalent of half a melon, with a hearty portion of thin, pink prosciutto.  I have had prosciutto before but never in such a large portion; it was more difficult to slice pieces than I had imagined, but the art of tearing the appropriate amount of meat to pair with the melon was learned quickly.

  

After passing the prosciutto plate around a few times – there some definite food envy at that table – it was time for our main courses.  I ordered meat tortellini with a potato and rosemary sauce.  Potato sauce sounded questionable at first, but I wanted to try a meat tortellini.  I had only previously had cheese or spinach-filled noodles, and, as I promised myself, I would try new foods and experience the culture as the locals do, so I figured I would try it. 

The way the rosemary herbs and the potato flavoring mixed was incredible.  Because a potato sauce is fairly dense and holds little flavor, the rosemary was the perfect accent.  Some times, I even tend to think rosemary is too potent, so the two had a wonderful blend.  It was apparent the noodles were homemade.  The dough was soft and so thin in the center, the pigment and texture of the beef showed through.  Thankfully, there was a small serving of pasta – I have the tendency to eat until my plate is clear, regardless of what my stomach tells me – so I was not terribly full after all was said and done.

But, God forbid I pass up a dessert, so the “full” feeling was just around the corner.  Literally, around the corner in the restaurant was a large gelato case.  I have never seen anything like.  Each flavor was piled into its container and towering close to a foot above it (see picture!). 

Fior de Latte, um, don’t mind if I do.  I had that flavor in Florence for the first time and I have had it at each gelato shop since. And Bologna was no different.  The taste is very rich, but being the “sweets girl” that I am, I have no problem stomaching two scoops…and a cone.  Fior means flour, so the flavor literally translates to flour of milk.  If my research has served me correctly, it is the base for most cream flavors, even the chocolates.  But the starch white is enough to make you plunge your spoon in and the sweet, creamy consistency is truly a cathartic blend in your mouth.

It was the perfect meal and the perfect finish to a blustery Saturday.  “Finish? You had just finished lunch, how is your day finished,” you might be thinking.  But, if I am SO full (yet so content!) that I can’t even muster up the strength to shop anymore, let alone think about walking around, that’s when you know I am really satisfied – and it’s time for a little “siesta.”

Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of the New York Times Best Seller, Eat Pray Love, said it the best when she was traveling through Italy, “the ‘no carb left behind’ trip.” Cheers, cin cin, to that.