La Grassa. The fat one. Bologna has earned its nickname like no other place on earth. The old city is awash in excess calories, a medieval fortress town fortified with golden mountains of starch and red cannons of animal fat, where pastas gleam a brilliant yellow from the lavish amount of egg yolks they contain and menus moan under the weight of their meat- and cheese-burdened offerings.

I long dreamt of nuzzling up to Bologna's ample waistline. As a high school kid with a burgeoning romance with the kitchen, I was hungry to consummate my love with what I regarded as the world's finest cuisine. The intermediary was a young, heavyset Italian-American named Mario Batali.

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