Becoming Accidental Voyagers
Ristorante Bologna in Varese: Mismatched to Perfection
It's in unexpected places like these that journeys end and begin anew—places I never planned to arrive at. On country borders, at highway intersections, or somewhere random and utterly by chance or even mistake.
I reached them mostly after dark on quiet roads with empty sidewalks. Shutters were drawn for the night. There was always a hotel, and in the early mornings, I woke up to an out-of-place feeling of ubiquity and total irrelevance, barely remembering if I had to take a right or a left into the neon-lit corridor with its vinyl textured wallpaper and wall-to-wall timeworn-patterned carpet.
One-off stops that left no traces. Just like Varese.
I had bungled the intersection and found myself tired and hungry in this border town that is both distinctively Italian and deceptively Swiss.
Walking down Via Broggi, a sign, high up above the sidewalk as if the owners were afraid it might be stolen, read Bologna ristorante, bar, albergo, in yellow lettering with three stars on a field the color of alpine grass in spring. In an unassuming place in Italy, on the outskirts of a small town, a local entrepreneur had woken up one morning with the enthralling idea of producing oval backlit signs in a workshop behind his home and selling them to restaurants opening in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s throughout the country.
Quality outlasts trends.
Through the glass of the aluminum hinged door, there was a small bar with four empty tables, totally unintriguing. Two men were standing at the counter, drinking beer. A deceptively simple scene in Italy, where appearances often conceal a more compelling story. As I walked in, I could hear them trying to make themselves heard above the noise that was permeating through the double doors at the back.
Italian bars are just a preamble for any of life's truly important facets, such as funerals, sex, new cars, and food.
In the dining room, champion cyclists' vintage jerseys hung from the ceiling in frames. Every square inch of the walls were covered in kitschy paintings and perfectly mismatched photographs, many of which were dedicated and signed. Football teams, singers, skiers, TV personalities, writers, and politicians that came through town had left their mark on the walls. Against this uniquely chaotic backdrop, the Lorenzini family had been running the restaurant for decades. They were still putting huge wooden cutting boards—overloaded with antipasto—on the tables and serving local wines.
Bologna is one of those restaurants where patrons either know each other or get to know newcomers before a meal is over. We're talking about hours. It's gaudy and loud. The menu is just an excuse to start an animated discussion with the waiter about food—an exercise in non-verbal communication that always ends with accepting his suggestions.
Salumi misti al coltello, nervetti di vitello, cipolline stuffate in aceto balsamico, risotto con barbatietola rossa e guancale affumicato al rosmarino, filetto di manzo scaloppato e cotto in padella con gorgonzola e panna...
My dinner was pure taste bud poetry. Memories of Ristorante Bologna kept me salivating for over a decade.
I botched the same intersection 12 years later. Or so I told my wife. It was lunchtime. For more than a hundred kilometers, I had already been drooling with anticipation. The sign was still there, high up over the sidewalk. The bar was empty. The restaurant was full.
There was more porcini than tagliatelle on our plates.
As we crossed into Switzerland, we pulled over for a nap. It was 3 p.m. with 900 kilometers to go, a full tank of gas, and a full stomach.
There's always the unexpected. There's always tomorrow.
https://www.aestheticnomads.com/
Contributors:
Hans Pauwels, words - Reinhilde Gielen, photographs.
Such a beautiful read! Enjoyed this thoroughly!!
It reminds me so much of my favorite place in Milan. I still have dirty dreams about the shaved artichokes…