Too Late for Tortellini

In Italy’s food capital, I was sure I’d find lunch. I was sure about a lot of things.

Bologna, la Grassa (Hugo Kruip/Unsplash)

The train left Milan only a few minutes late. But outside Reggio Emilia, it slowed and then stopped, sitting motionless for at least ten minutes. When it started again, it never returned to full speed, moving tentatively through the flat countryside and past small stations before finally crawling to a stop in Bologna.

None of it bothered me until I looked at my watch. We were more than an hour behind schedule. I might arrive too late for the tortellini in brodo I’d been craving.

Bologna is Italy’s best food city, and I’d been looking forward to lunch there too long to settle for a bland panino at the station. I stepped down onto the platform and got my bearings. It was past three. I’d have to hurry.

I rushed toward Via dell’Indipendenza, scanning every storefront. I stuck my head in the door of the first osteria I found and asked if the kitchen was still open. A waiter tapped his watch and shook his head. “Mi dispiace” -- sorry. At the next two spots, wait staff was already turning chairs upside down on the tables.

Then I turned a corner and found myself outside a simple-looking place with a broad front window. The tables and chairs were mismatched, and it didn’t seem particularly inviting. But that wasn’t always a bad sign, and I could no longer afford to be picky.

Most importantly, it seemed to still be open. There were no lingering diners, but the door was wide open and three well-dressed people -- two women and a man -- were chatting at the back.

I slipped inside and took the seat closest to the door, plopping my backpack onto the floor next to me. I placed the book I was reading on the table, to my side. Once I was settled, they’d have to serve me something, right? The three of them glanced over but kept talking.

I’d lived in Italy long enough to understand how Italian restaurant culture was different than in other countries where I’d lived. Not just the quality of the food, though there was that. But the rituals that come with it.

Yum. Tortellini in brodo (EJL)

I knew the old-fashioned notion of a tavolo per la sera -- the table for the evening -- with no expectation you’d leave early enough for someone else to take your spot. There was the importance locals gave to sitting and enjoying a meal, not just using food as fuel consumed on the run. There were all the unwritten rules an outsider could only learn one at a time, usually by breaking them. I’d broken enough of them to know.

My stomach reminded me of why I was there.

If they didn’t have tortellini in brodo, I decided, I’d just ask for a recommendation. This was Bologna, la Grassa. A restaurant here wouldn’t last long in this city if its food wasn’t worth eating.

After another minute or two, I raised my hand and caught the man’s eye. He whispered something to the women, smoothed his tie against his chest, and then walked toward me with intent. He was young, but confident.

When he reached me, he stopped with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Buon pomeriggio, signore. Come posso aiutarla?” -- “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

“Could you bring me a menu?” I asked in Italian. “Are there any specials today? Do you have tortellini in brodo?”

The man studied me for a long moment.

“Sir,” he said, “this is a furniture store.”

Nota Bene: In my defense, it was only a small furniture store. If you enjoyed seeing me get this one wrong, a paid subscription keeps these Tuesday essays coming, and it includes a mailed gift packet and a monthly digest built from the sharpest reader comments. Become a paid subscriber.