When you arrive in Bologna, the gastronomic capital of a country that is arguably the gastronomic center of the world, it’s best to arrive hungry. I arrived with a molar that had fractured on a cough drop en route to Boston’s Logan airport. The concierge at my hotel procured an appointment with a dentist shortly after I landed.

My toothache throbbed all the way down my neck as my cab passed shop windows filled with fresh pasta the color of spring hay, icebergs of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and ladies forming tiny tortellini around their fingertips, before dropping me off at an anonymous building in the centro storico. Salvation appeared in the form of Dr. Celestina Leporati, who patched up my tooth, along with my spirits. For her, the matter was urgent. “In Bologna,” she said, “you have to eat!”