VII.iii. The Restaurant Circuit

"When you hear about Bolognese cuisine, be respectful, because it deserves as much. It might be somewhat heavy, due to the climate, but it is succulent and healthy, such that it is more common to live to the age of eighty or ninety in Bologna than elsewhere."
- Pellegrino Artusi

I had recovered, in a way, from the extraordinary experience that was the previous night's dinner by the time the final lecture given by Julia Kristeva had ended. Back among the faceless ranks of students, I was able to observe her with a much-revised point of view. Eco, having to catch a plane to Paris, had vanished, and now it was Kristeva alone lecturing from the high table against the backdrop of an immense fresco in one of the university's grander halls. Leaving the lecture, I made my way across town to the Palace Hotel, where, never a dull moment, I had a rendez-vous with my latest set of visitors, who had arrived from France that afternoon just.
    Alain, Denise, Tony, and Gabrielle are bon vivants, to my advantage, and their stay in Bologna turned out to be very culinary in nature. I had, of course, experimented with Bolognese cuisine on my own, in my diminutive kitchen, but much of the Emilian cuisine is notoriously complex, and difficult if not impossible to master with just a few basic Ikea implements, coupled with typical student frugality.
    In the past few months I had resigned myself to eating rather simply, though still well, indulging in the occasional packet of San Daniele prosciutto. The constraints of my kitchen were beginning to show themselves, though the purchase of a new microwave had led to some interesting new possibilities. The two principle uses of this new appliance, bought on sale at Pam for forty Euros, are heating up pasta and, surprisingly, baking chocolate cakes. Living in the very centre of Bologna, it makes little sense for me to eat in a restaurant, and I even try to avoid it, knowing that eating out too often as a student breeds bad habits.
    Being invited for dinner, however, is a different story, and so, for four pleasant days, my relatives treated me to great meals at some of the city's more legendary restaurants, such as Da Nello, where house specialties such as deep fried artichokes and foot-thick Mortadella sausages are called up to the dining room in a dumb-waiter, and the Rosteria Luciano, a veritable Bolognese institution with its wood-paneled walls and bowtie clad waiters.
    So, like the flavour of a well tended Bolognese sauce, this city only gradually reveals itself. Even after six months, there is still much left to discover.