A meal is a known thing in one of the many warm-lit, creaking trattorias hunched under Bologna’s porticoes. Dimpled paper tablecloths, heavy white napkins. Tortellini plumply floating in broth for a tortellini in brodo, ragù alla bolognese coating broad spools of tagliatelle, thick slabs of lasagne, cotoletta alla bolognese (a veal cutlet fried in butter and topped with prosciutto and Parmigiano), and, ever-present amidst the groaning display, a plate of mortadella—or, to be exact, Mortadella Bologna IGP.
The ham is very pink and stippled white with fat. Here, in one of those trattorias, it pools in proud layers around a plate. Spear a slice with your fork, and if you’re near a window, hold it up to the sky. Legend goes that it should be cut gauze-thin enough as to frame the silhouette of San Luca, Bologna’s hilltop basilica.
