336 hours in Bologna

Ducked out of the rain into Via dei Falegnami 18 and had a sliced Angus steak. This is farm country and beef is big. Good waiter, good steak, not much buzz. A lot of mopey Italian tourists on their phones, and Maria was sniping at her staff again. Wouldn't hurt to keep walking to Caminetto d'Oro at No. 4 (Fred Plotkin mentions it in his definitive "Italy for the Gourmet Traveler"). I would have done so, but it was closed for ... I dunno, Easter Tuesday? Nobody is better at grifting a day off than the Italians. I kid!

My slender experiences in Italy lead me to believe that the word "bar" signals that a place serves coffee and snacks, and that it also happens to pour wine, beer and aperitifs. This chill pub on Piazza San Francesco got my business today. It is gearing up for a big Liberation Day party coming up Thursday to celebrate the collapse of Fascist rule and the end of the Nazi occupation. Sounds like a simple victory lap in a neighborhood rife with antifa-friendly graffiti, but maybe not. Takeaway alcohol sales have been banned on April 25 previously, so maybe things have gotten out of control, not sure. Motorists in the Pratello are warned that all traffic will be prohibited, and even bicyclists in the neighborhood are advised to vacate the racks. Don't know what that will accomplish or where they’re supposed to put their bikes. On a sunny day, Bar De Marchi is a great place for a cold Pignoletto or a Campari spritz. If you order a birra, they’ll pour you a Dolimiti Pi...

Pork cheek guanciale and other smoked hams like speck stagionato.   Good between two pieces of crusty bread or sizzling in a hot pan. After climbing down the medieval Asinelli tower I was carried as if by providence into Ceccarelli Amedeo at Via Pescherie Vecchie 8, one of several specialty food shops in the Quadrilatero that sell only local certified (DOP) products produced by methods handed down from generation to generation. The entire street is a goddamn food paradise, as are the alleyways that run parallel to it. I walked out with some salame Piacentino , a hunk of pecorino di fossa  (sheep cheese ripened in pits of volcanic rock) and a pound of fresh tortellini. A little spendy, but the hard cheeses take a year to produce, and some poor lady has to fill each of these belly-button-shaped pasta pieces with prosciutto and Parmagiano-Reggiano, and it's supposed to rain all night and I've got a bottle of Gutturnio and you can't talk me out of any of it. So take ...

Piazza Celestini, almost directly in the city center. Good spot for prayin', pastries. I am the least foodie-est person I know and remain shockingly untutored in manners of Italian cuisine, so it's a bit odd that when in Italy I lie awake at night thinking about what I'm going to eat the next day. This country makes you do it. Staring at the ceiling last night it occurred to me that I have never had a sfogliatella (or even a latte macchiato, for chrissake) and was able to remedy those two shortcomings by popping into Il Duca D'Amalfi in Bologna's very pretty Celestini square. Entering this shop, the only thing I knew about sfogliatella is that Christopher Moltisanti thought it worth shooting a pastry clerk over a box of the stuff in Season 1 of "The Sopranos" ― so I really wanted one. As far as the latte macchiato goes, I had no idea I would be afforded the tactile pleasure of pouring my own shot of espresso into a glass of frothy steamed milk. No...

I saw pink clouds forming around 5:40 a.m., threw on my coat and covered as much ground as I could. Met a couple of other early risers with cameras and exchanged polite nods. Considering how overrun the city was with tourists on Saturday, this little stroll felt great. Via Marchesana. Via San Felice. The view toward i colli bolognesi , the hills just south of the city. Via Castiglione. Via Valdonica, in the Ghetto. Fountain of Neptune. Sea nymph at the fountain's base. How very Italian. Palazzo Communale. Church of Santa Stefano. Got lucky with this shot. Church of Saints Bartolomeo and Gaetano, next to the leaning towers. Back in the Pratello, an early morning Mass concludes at the San Francesco Church. I observed. Didn't hear any reference to the Sri Lanka attacks.     After a two-and-a-half-hour walk and as if on cue, church bells reluctantly run out of steam outside my apartment. Happy Easter, everyone...

Pleased to make my acquaintance with Via del Pratello 11, a cheery spot so obviously adored by the locals. Hugs are given and received, decanters outnumber bottles, and all the menus are handwritten in a tight cursive ― and dated. For a stranger in these lands, it is a fizz on the brain and a reminder to us non-Italians that a healthy give-and-take with caring local institutions is all that protects us from the Olive Gardens of the world. Trattoria Fantoni is so quintessentially  of   Bologna that I was compelled to order one of the city's signature dishes, the  tagliatelle al ragu, which doesn't invite exaltation.   It is what it is, but I gotta say I'm really into the flat-ish egg noodles after a few days here, and fresh pasta just seems weightier and more satisfying than the stuff I'm used to. Dessert was a chilled bowl of mascarpone with big chunks of chocolate here and there. I left a modest tip and the proprietress, as is the cafe's custom, ran...