Mum Comes to Italy: Bologna

Bologna.

Our next stop was to Bologna. I love Bologna and wanted Mum to see it too because I knew she'd like it just as much. Sundays in Italy though meant that most places were closed so the city wasn't quite as alive as I had remembered the last time I visited. It was still wonderful to stroll aimlessly throughout the streets, staring in disbelief at the intricate details in the architecture and creak our necks as we looked up at the massive, yet incredibly old buildings. Mum mentioned that she felt small in the city and pondered over the possibility of men erecting such grand buildings so many years ago. We ate in Eataly and lost the calories by climbing a never-ending staircase up a tower to overlook the city (impressive views, but I think Bologna is much prettier from the street). Despite the antique interior feeling of the tower, the stairs had no backing, which gave glimpses of the potential fall below. I don't consider myself to be scared of heights, but I walked up the steep stairs looking only up, feeling blind and helpless. If it wasn't for our motivation not to give up having already walked up so many flights, I would have been completely unable to go any further if I looked down.

wondering if we should keep going...

Bologna from up up above

We climbed it.

We wandered under the shade-providing porticles which block out the summer soaked sun and the humid winter rain. I wondered why Irish architects didn't think of such a thing with all their annual rain....We looked everywhere for silver bridesmaid shoes and we stopped outside the church in the main piazza to watch a parade go by, celebrating Italy's 150 years of unification.

confetti everywhere!

Later, amongst the empty, quiet streets, we came upon a gelateria (per Catherine's suggestion) with an incredible line outside where we each had a cone of two flavours. delicious! 

For dinner, we got a reservation at Diana - which the NYTimes, Mario Batalli, Food & Wine, etc all talked about, so I was looking forward to some typical Bolognese food. The restaurant was busily packed, brightly lit from large chandeliers, and it seemed like a scene out of the 1950's. The servers were formally dressed and carved meat off carts served table-side. Mum and I figured we should order the mortadella appetizers - so she ordered some sort of mortadella with parmigiano reggiano and I ordered spuma di mortadella. Her plate arrived - an obnoxiously large amount of cubed pink meat with three slivers of cheese. 

Mum just laughed.

Mine was a pot of mortadella pate with a large romaine lettuce leaf sticking out, served with three thin slices of toasted bread. 

Maybe the cubes of mortadella were unappealing to look at, bright pink with white spots of fat, maybe it is the disconnect between the amount of meat and the amount of cheese, maybe it was the association of mortadella with the gross bologni in America, maybe it is the chewy texture - but it was just too much meat and not even presented well with any effort. The spuma was nice as a pate, with a mild flavour and soft texture, but it was also too much for one person. Oh well, we thought, with our "when in Rome" mentality, we tried. We wondered if mortadella is still popular with the Bolognese locals, or if it's on the menu as such for the tourists. Not to be compared with anything found in America, I like the flavour of mortadella, I have a better appreciation for it, but mostly when it is sliced thinly. Next, our pasta courses came. Mum ordered rigatoni with melanzane, pomodori and mozarella. 

I ordered tagliatelle with tartufo. 

Mum took one of the shaved truffles off the top to taste it, as did I.....we tasted nothing. Maybe it tastes better with the pasta. Twirled the pasta with the black truffles and tasted nothing. The truffle tasted like soggy paper and all I could think of when I ate it with the pasta was "armpit." I took another bite and refused to eat anymore. The waiter came over and asked if anything was wrong and I said this isn't good. The headwaiter came over and assured me that the truffles were fresh, that it was the right season for them, and that he had just shaved them. I said, I know, but this is not good. The taste of the pasta wasn't even rich with creamy butter. He looked at me utterly confused as I refused to be tempted into eating it. Somewhere inside, I too was confused as I hardly ever send anything back. But this was not edible and not worth it. He asked me if I wanted anything else and I said no thank you, just a check. Maybe if the appetizers had been better I would have given something else another shot, but even Mum's rigatoni was ok, but not amazing. What a disappointment. Maybe we ordered the wrong things (is that even possible to consider? Shouldn't everything be good?). Trying to give them the benefit of the doubt, I started to doubt my own culinary taste - maybe I don't know what truffles should taste like - but these thoughts about this dish couldn't be justified. I think that I do know**, and these freshly-shaved but not-fresh truffles tasted like absolutely nothing. Armpit. I'd like to think I know more what truffles taste like than armpits....

**confidence regained the following night


The next day, Bologna was bustling. The food markets were sprawled onto the little streets. We wandered around the shops until we headed to Modena.

love the food in Bologna

so many types of mortadella!

(oh, and Mum did like Bologna as much as I knew she would).