"The Learned, the Red, and the Fat"

Siena is clearly the best place in the world in all possible ways, but Bologna made a daring bid for the number one slot this past weekend. Angela and I hopped the early-bird bus on Saturday; it was still pretty dark and the clouds were ominous. The 2.5 hour ride lulled us into a stupor, which we immediately snapped out of when we reached our fair destination: Bologna, known for ages as "Letto, Rossi, e Grossi" or Learned, Red, and Fat.

We dropped our bags at a tiny hotel off the Piazza Maggiore, where Megan and Kelley would meet up with us later that afternoon, and headed off into the city. We weren't as captivated by the "Letto" aspect of the city, and instead pursued all things Grossi, which included two of Bologna's award winning gelaterias. And here was our first mind-blowing discovery: GELATO CON FOCACCIA. It's sort of the Italian love-child of a hot dog and an ice cream sandwich, only prettier. And minus the processed meat products. A fresh-baked, cinnamon-dusted, sweet-bread-bun-thingy sliced open and heated for 3 seconds in the microwave, and then filled with four scoops of the best gelato you can imagine. Absolute ecstasy, no joke.

After our first gelato, we explored some more and ogled the continuous overhang of porticos extending over virtually all of the city sidewalks. Everywhere you walk, a protective ceiling shades you and lovely arcades of columns extends between you and the busy streets. The longest one goes for a few kilometers and is apparently somposed of 666 consecutive porticos! Bologna would def be a good rainy-day destination, since you're always out of the elements.

The food was without a doubt the highlight of the trip. There was a farmer's market on Saturday, where a lot of the local restaurants stock up for the week. Once Kelley and Megan joined us, decided to go for the full foodie experience, and reserved a place at little place that was supposed to be good.

We arrived a little early for our 8 o'clock reservation, and were seated under the sidewalk portico. Immediately food began arriving at our table and our glasses filled with proseco; we weren't sure if we would even choose our meals or not. After the starters, the Ms. Owner Guy sauntered over and began to recite, in rapid gutteral Italian (read: incomprehensible) tonight's options. Um...could we see a menu please? We felt pretty ostentatiously American; we were younger than the other people there, and hesitant about ordering. With some coaxing, we chose pastas, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then the wine came out, and soon after our pastas, and we began to relax a little.

The next time Mr. Owner Guy came by, he didn't seem quite as intimidating, and we were able to order mains without too much embarrassment. By now it's dark, and we notice the rose petals scattered on the ground near us, and admire the enthusiastic toast being given two table over by an older man with arms extended over his head. We're slowing falling into a food coma; I can't even describe the crazy goodness of what our waitress brought out. When it's time for dessert, the group two tables down has expanded to include a deliciously quaint accordian player and everyone's singing, it's ridiculously perfect. The American couple sitting next to us pull out their camera and snap a photo, we congratulate ourselves for not giving into that particular indulgence. When dessert arrives, Angela and I are astounded to see that we have ordered what appears to be...a dish of frothy fresh-whipped mascarpone cream, speckled with shards of dark chocolate. Seriously, Bologna? Straight-up whipped cream and chocolate? This is the kind of thing that would not fly in America, but you secretly wish for.

We're pretty happy right about now, savoring the flavors and music and the sight of the owner getting steadily tipsy with the folks a few tables down. Now we're thinking it might be some kind of wedding celebration, and what do you know? Out dances Mr. Owner himself, holding the wedding cake and strutting about showing off his baby to everyone. Good thing we already had dessert or we'd be jealous!

We're waiting to be kicked out as the wedding celebration continues to gather steam, but the staff doesn't seem worried about getting us to leave. In fact, the owner (how were we afraid of him at first?!?) slips up behind Angela and furiously rubs her bare arms, chanting "Non fa freddo! Non freddo!" until he's convinced she's not catching cold. And then his pal comes around with the wedding champage, and pours a little into our reddened wine glasses, swirls it about and dumps it into the next, repeating until the last glass is full of a deep pink wineseco mixture, which he flings behind him, splattering a parked car. He then fills our glasses, spilling liberally over the tablecloth, and returning several more times. By now we're giggling and joking, and feel almost deserving when some of the wedding cake is sent over our way. (It's pure butter and pastry. Actually.) We're loving the jealous looks from the American couple next to us, who get up to leave without any cake. When we finally get our check, it's 11:30.

As we get up to leave, Mr. Owner sweeps in front of us, and pulls four long-stemmed yellow roses from the wedding bouquets, and presents them to each of us, accompanied by kisses on each cheek and hearily squeezing our shoulders (and his business card slipped into our pockets). I don't care if it's just an extremely effective business strategy, but I am in love with this place and will remember and recommend it forever to anyone in Italy. Hell, years from now I'll hunt this guy down and invite him to my wedding. Granted he'll have no idea who I am, and he'll probably be busy at his restaurant and with his life and all that...but I think anyone who considers a plate of whipped cream appropriate restaurant fare is very special.

Anyways, it was a great weekend, other stuff happened, look at my pictures on flikr, I'll post the link in a bit, blah blah blah.