II.viii. Restauration

"Of the industries in Bologna, the sausage-making one is of considerable importance. They are well known, and they are exported everywhere. I have had them in America, but it still seems to me that they are better here, in the place where they are made."
- Jean-Baptiste Labat

The rain has come to Bologna, and along with it the cold as well. The weather up until now had been too good to be true, but now, suddenly, it has soured.
    I could sense the cold front moving in late Saturday night as I returned from Ravenna. It had arrived in earnest Sunday morning, as my alarm clock failed to function and I awoke late, far too late for Florence, as had been the plan, to the pouring rain. This was my first rain in Bologna, but it was not altogether bad. The cold was bothersome and damp, and my stubborn frugal instincts are going to hold out their longest at not turning the heating on in my apartment, I know. But for now it is a delight to stay indoors, spending time in these small, cosy apartments either my own or invited out to dinner with my slowly growing group of friends. It is the sort of weather that has you drink tea.
    Or cook, as it would be in my case (since I don't have a kettle). I have been working on my Bolognese dishes as best as I can, being slightly handicapped by not having an oven, either. But I am perfecting my version of that famous sauce, rejoicing at spending two-thirds less on cheeses twice as good, and honing my knowledge of Italian geography by reading wine labels.
    I did make one excursion on that rainy Sunday, however, down to the Mercato Centrale on via Ugo Bassi. This place, one of the many centres of supply in a gastronomic Mecca, has somewhat more allure than the Plenty Market around the corner from Centotrecento. It is here that the Bolognese come to shop, restaurateurs as well as homemakers, and the competition is cutthroat. The mercato is a cross between a sprawling urban market and Paris' Rungis, compressed into about one tenth of the space. Here, like the train lines that converge at the central train station, all the flavours of Italy coalesce, and fish caught that morning in the bay of Naples are side by side with Speck from the Trentino-Alto-Adige, freshly cured by Italian butchers speaking German cured by Italian.
    Walking home from the market I noticed a door open to San Giorgio, a church that is famous principally for being closed. I entered, curious, carrying bags of meat and broccoli with me, and was fascinated and surprised to see the place in disarray. Not complete disarray, however, because about two thirds of the ceiling and the entirety of the walls were gleaming, freshly cleaned and well lit, with grandiose designs painted impressively in trompe l'oeuil. The restorers were at work. There were tarps and tools everywhere, and two giant cranes in the centre aisle of the church, reaching upwards to the vaults and making an echoing hydraulic racket. Meanwhile, a few hat-wearing old ladies were kneeling in front of their altars, silent and unperturbed.
    Atop one of the cranes, at least twenty five metres above the pavement, two young women in overalls were scrubbing away at the ceiling with what looked like simple rags. Mesmerized, I stared at their work for a few minutes, enough to see them uncover about a square metre of an incredible faux marble cornice. Two hundred years of grime from tallow candles and greasy incense sprinkled to the floor like ashes. Elsewhere in the church, a girl was touching up a frieze of garlands and putti with a paintbrush and a few coffee cups full of colour. I asked her if I could watch a while, and she nodded. The restorers were not Italian; they were Portuguese, here on a cultural exchange. They were doing their part, too.