My first trip to Bologna, in 2007, was my first trip to Italy. In fact, it was the first time I had traveled anywhere by myself. These were the days of flip phones, long before you could rely on weather apps or Google Maps. I arrived in Bologna by train from Rome, where it had been 75°F [24°C] and sunny. Just a couple hours north, the weather was foggy, overcast, and chilly. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my T-shirt. As I made my way from the station to the apartment I was renting, I saw sincere concern for my well-being in the eyes of passersby—bolognesi, I would later learn, believe underdressing causes illness.
In broken Italian I asked for directions and, eventually, arrived at the front door of my building near Via Stalingrado at the edge of Bologna’s red-light district. I buzzed the Buonpensieri apartment where my landlords were supposed to be waiting for me. No answer. This whole Bologna trip wasn’t exactly off to a smooth start. After a long, anxiety-filled hour, the Buonpensieris showed up—with Signora Buonpensieri hugging a pile of bedsheets. That made me feel instantly at ease, like I was home.
They showed me to my apartment and we made conversation in hand gestures and my primitive Italian. I told them I had come to study pasta making with the famous Maestra Alessandra. “Bravo!” they exclaimed. “But do you know how to cook?” inquired Signora Buonpensieri. I told her I did and she laughed a little too much. “Okay, well maybe we’ll try your food sometime,” she said, laughing again.
Over the next few months I ran into the Buonpensieris in the hallway and around town. We exchanged pleasantries, but it wasn’t until they talked to Maestra Alessandra about me that they invited me to cook dinner for them. Apparently I had gotten Alessandra’s coveted seal of approval! They invited me to their country house in Castel Maggiore to cook Sunday dinner. I was ecstatic and I knew just what to make: Tagliatelle al Ragù della Vecchia Scuola (page 90), the maestra’s signature dish and go-to comfort food.
Their place was a nice two-story house with a beautiful modern kitchen. I arrived late morning and commenced an epic nine-hour prep session. Signora Buonpensieri left me alone—mostly. Her mother-in-law was much more curious about what I was up to and hovered as I worked. I can’t remember having felt more intimidated in a kitchen before, or since. When the time came to make the tagliatelle, I asked for a workspace. Signora Buonpensieri went into the broom closet and brought me a large piece of plywood that had clearly been used thousands of times. I rolled out enough dough to serve 12 people—of course, my landlords had invited their friends to judge the American sfoglino.
When the dinner hour came, I plated the tagliatelle and served each guest personally. By that time, I had been in Bologna long enough to know if a native truly disliked something, he or she will leave it on their plate. If they like it, they use a heel of bread to wipe the plate clean. That night, I bussed a dozen spotless dishes from the table. That was all the approval I needed and far more than expected. After dinner, I sat with the Buonpensieris and their friends as they took turns giving their critique or advice. There wasn’t a single compliment in the whole group, but after that night I could write a thesis on each of their nonna’s ragùs.