You may have heard about “eating your way through Italy” tours. Such itineraries are created solely around culinary pleasure, ranging from delicate, civilized wine tasting to achingly-full menus of meats, cheeses and pastas, the mere consideration of which constitute outright, glorious gluttony.

I’ve eaten very well here, but certainly didn’t plan for that kind of trip. And then I found Bologna. Though I only spent a short time in “La Grassa” (or, as translated, “The Fat One”), it’s for the best. In the words of one of my best friends, the food was “dee-licious,” and I shudder to think what could become of my cholesterol levels had I elected to stick around.

But that’s the end, the dessert (if you will), of the story. Jules and I set out with the sole goal of eating, pure and simple. Our starting point was Modena, home of balsamic vinegar, which sits about 20 km northwest of our final stop, Bologna, prized for excellent parmigiano-reggiano and prosciutto (note: for you Italy aficionados, the city of Parma itself was too out of the way).

We got just a glimmer of Modena, unfortunately arriving during afternoon reposo. After spending most of the time walking the empty-ish square and surrounding streets (searching for a restaurant that was, naturally, closed), we enjoyed wine with a requisite Italian complimentary bar snack spread: salty, smooth green olives, crispy potato chips, tiny ham and cheese sandwiches, squares of pizza with a thick, cakey-flaky crust, and corners of savory pie, a crunchy, golden pastry filled with spinach, balsamic vinegar and parmesan.

I still have trouble believing the bar staff — you can really get these kind of eats while paying only for the cost of an aperitif? — but I certainly didn’t belabor the point.

By the time we got to Bologna, it had started raining… or, I’m sorry, it had started pouring. And we were ravenous. With our tiny “just in case” umbrellas and even tinier map, we navigated our way from the train to the city center, eventually wandering down an inviting alleyway and sitting at an even more inviting, inconspicuous bar.

The wine was red and deep and layered, reminding one of words like gentle, bold, velvet and pepper. And as good as our afternoon snacks were, the food, my friends, sat on a different level entirely. I’m talking about a counter full of piled-high platters: olives like candy, bite-sized morsels of mild, fresh mozzarella paired perfectly with pungent tapenade, sweet, jammy, freshly herbed, olive oil-ed sundried tomatoes that kind of make you want to die, right there, at the table, morsel-in-mouth. Reminder: this is before dinner.

Thankfully, the trattoria next door wasn’t disappointing. It offered up a litre of red and two plates of perfect pasta: one, slender macaroni noodles lightly mixed with a simple, yet highly effective, tomato sauce; the other, cheese-filled tortellini bathing in butter and sweet sage. We tried to talk about it, to compare respective food reviews, but it didn’t involve the English language so much as it did moaning.

I should also mention that by this time we were dangerously close to missing the last train home. In an embarrassingly American fashion, we sped through our insalata mista, got dessert to go, paid the check and walked – strike that, ran – towards the station. Our taxi arrived with 3 minutes to spare, just in time for us to learn of the 55-minute departure delay.

We waited, all the while debating whether to turn back around. We calculated how many more olives, spoonfuls of pasta, sundried tomatoes we might be able to consume in that extra hour. Next time, we agreed. Now we know what we’re in for.

This time, though, we just sat. We sat on the cement platform, tired and happy and full, futilely listening to delay updates in Italian blaring overhead, smiling about the day’s events, and deliriously eating a heaven of rich, soft tiramisu with our fingers.

Along Via dell'Indipendenza, Bologna

Rainy Piazza Maggiore, Bologna

Chiesa di San Francisco, Bologna