One step at a time

People swarm about disguising the creaky second hand tables, benches and peeling walls. The background blends into them. Push your way to the bar and order a drink, A traditional Lambrusco perhaps? And then there is the food. Everyone is eating but there is no kitchen or vendor insight. The busy social scene is a "bring your own". It is Osteria Del Sole and like everywhere in Bologna food is the main priority, food and people.

Demographics are defied in delicacies. The Lacoste polo shirt contingent sit side by side the students stuffing themselves after lectures. The seedy and the needy converse with the bohemian traveler. Families share the long communal tables with neither “ Nonno” or “ Bambino” looking out of place. Chucks of parmesan are cut and shared out while long salamis are thickly sliced to make Panini, tomatoes and fruit nestle beside half empty wine glasses.

Over my head there is a sign that translates as "spitting is forbidden:" this was a cattle market once, so I am told. On the walls pictures of past diners hang; black and white and dusty with age. But history remains in the making and no photo could capture the atmosphere of the tavern for me on that day. Maybe it was because I was hungry, or maybe Bologna ate into my soul like I ate into its produce.

On my first visit alone I sat alone but I was soon joined by a group of aging men; intrigued by the tiny Irish girl. I was taken in to the group, with melon and prosciutto as the currency for conversation. On another occasion my dining companion regaled me with stories of past romances and Paris while we shared savory biscuits and cigarettes. He told me that all people do here is talk about food ,"They talk more about food than love and sex" he said.
In the buying of flesh the soul of the city is laid bare. Food represents almost as much as the “Due Torre”, the symbol of the city, watching over this continuous feast. Here eating out is more than the rowdy “Pinxos Crawl” of the Basques or the symbolic tea times of china. In these walls food is not only a ritual but a responsibility. Laughter and talk are only broken to chew, or should that be the other way round?

The clink as my glass is taken away reminds me I have to leave. I step outside, expecting to be faced by reality. There is a queue out of the door of the butchers and someone shouts something about "Pomodori" from a fruit stall. And then I remember this is "La Grassa;” The Fat One, and I smile as I look forward to dinner.