Many years ago, before the turn of this century (and doesn't that sound OLD!) I was traveling with my friend Tom and his friend Dorothy and we took a late night train from Paris to Bologna. Our cabin had three beds that were magically pulled out of the wall after about 10:00 pm and we were supposed to sleep. My recollections, such as they are, don't involve a lot of sleep until well past midnight because I found the drink cart and stole (!) many small bottles of Cognac, which Tom and I happily consumed. Dorothy, probably, wisely, had a couple and went to sleep.
Fast forward to morning, when our train pulls into Bologna. I don't remember much about that night except falling asleep at some point, looking out the window and marveling at the amazing moon. And then passing out again. We woke hungover and very thirsty and it wasn't even 8:00 am. Clearly we needed coffee, water and food.... and eventually a place to spend the night.
Because of the afore mentioned hangover, I have no idea what we did with our bags, our bodily needs or our need for coffee and water. What I do remember is that around noon we found a very small, very Italian trattoria down a small alley and we went in for lunch, probably at the stroke of noon when they opened.
It was clear very quickly that this was a restaurant that catered to Italians. What a surprise! English was not fluent, to say the least. But since we were there early, we got a table. Within fifteen minutes the place was full, mostly of business suited men and women, a sign that this was not a toss-off place to eat.
Two things stand out: first, my body was rocking internally, like it was still on the train, quietly drifting side to side, my head still slightly spinning and my eyes rolling around like two unconnected marbles in that aching head, not quite ready to focus on the menu. Or anything else.
Second, this was possibly the best pasta I had ever eaten in my entire life. When in Bologna one orders Pasta Bolognese. At least I did. How different my life would have been had I ordered something else! Perhaps there was a first course, an antipasti of some sort.... I do not recall. But the waiter put a bowl of fresh tagliatelle in front of me that had been tossed with a very conservative amount of what looked like meat sauce. It appeared that the sauce was barely enough to coat the pasta. Then I tasted it. And I swooned. There is nothing to compare with that first taste. Rich, meaty, not a lot of tomatoes, a dusting of fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Simplicity itself, no parsley, no garlic, no oregano, no spice of any kind. Meat and something else.
It was salvation. It was a revelation. It certainly cured the hangover (with a nice glass of Chianti) and it set me up for disappointment ever since.
Two years later, I took Gabe to Europe and we stopped for a couple of nights in Bologna because it was, at that time, an amazing city of history and beauty and learning and Bolognese pasta! Gabe and I found the small restaurant down the alley and we were there for lunch. Gabe had the Bolognese pasta and he had the same reaction: one bite and he simply put his fork down and closed his eyes and slowly moved his head side to side. The owner/host saw this and came up behind Gabe and put his hand on Gabe's shoulder, just a physical acknowledgement of how Gabe's taste buds were surprised and overwhelmed and overjoyed by the taste of that pasta.
And I have been chasing that taste for over 25 years. Today I made Bolognese sauce, once again, trying for that ethereal taste, that elevating experience. My sauce cooked for 7 hours. It is good. But it isn't it. It isn't Bologna. Maybe that's appropriate, and it is okay, but it is a bit disappointing. I want that first bite experience to be repeated. Probably never going to happen. Sigh.