Holy Baloney!

Bologna, Italy - Rome might not have fallen in a day, but I did. You think half-pound burgers piled with fries and Chicago deep dish pizza were made for appetites for destruction? Well, try the Italians on for size. There is just no way to keep up with these three-course meals, particularly in Bologna, where leaving a speck of Parmegiano Reggiano cheese might be a worse sin than skipping the afternoon siesta. At Trattoria del Rosso, the oldest one in town, I ordered the hearty set lunch for 10 euros, and received a full plate of gnocchi al ragu (when in Bologna, eat Bolognese sauce) to start.

Gnocchi al ragu - I don't think Bolognese anywhere else in the world after this trip will ever satisfy me.

There was no doubt that it was no coincidence that circumstances dictated I started my first ever trip to Italy in the province of Emilia Romagna, the gastronomic capital of the Boot. This region is home to Modena (olive oil), Parma (the cheese and proscuitto) and Bologna (the sauce, tortellini). You do not come here to eat an arugula salad with ricotta. You do not come here to eat thin crust pizza. You do not come here if you are going to pick at your food. You might as well be banished to Elba, if unable to tuck it all away with gusto while carrying on a full conversation in rapid-fire tongue rolls.

Well, so the Bolognese ragu that came tossed with my gnocchi (perfectly resistantly chewy yet yieldingly tenderly soft) was heavenly, and later I would realize why when I saw that a church was across the piazza from the trattoria. Being so close to a place of worship, I couldn't lie and say I finished my primo - I didn't want to ruin my secondo, stinco al forno con patate. I tried to eat as many gnocchi as I possibly could without seeming rude (trust me, if this had been my only course, I would have wiped the plate clean like I was a World Series umpire). The signor at the next table started with tortellini in marinara sauce, which he cleaned up like a casino king. Just as I was thinking that I should've just ordered one dish, his next course appeared, roast beef with carbonara and a whole grilled tomato au gratin. Like the tortellini, this too left no trace of its existence. All this happened while a grizzly white-haired cook popped his head out ever so often to greet a regular guest or to check on his dining room. Now I really wish I'd finished the gnocchi.

Stinco al forno con patate - roast pork shoulder that yielded under my fork in perfect shreds.

I meant to save room for dinner, and I did. Except that when I stepped into a bar for a Campari soda aperitivo, I was given a plate of two mini croissants with proscuitto on the house (I soon discovered that all Italian bars serve a complimentary buffet with evening drinks). So I had to bypass one of Bologna's great culinary offerings, as I had absolutely no room and did not want to force a good meal down - how insulting is that? So I stopped by Paolo Atti, Bologna's best and most famous specialty food emporium where pasta is made fresh in the back and the prettiest pastries stock the windows and glass cases, and bought a tart and two cookies.

It was a sweet, sweet (and happy) ending to my first day in Italy, one that anyone can easily stomach.

Good night, sweetheart, good night.