The phrase “fanculo la dieta” is emblazoned absolutely everywhere at Forna Brisa, the very first eatery we visit in Bologna. Translation: “fuck the diet”.

They’re words to live by always, but especially in the motherland of mortadella.

While the pink, spotty smallgood has gone from trending to typical on Australian menus, it’s the number-one reason we – a couple of third-generation Italians – are in the capital of the Emilia-Romagna region, in northern Italy.

Falling in love with this university town is only natural. Its 60-odd kilometres of ornate porticoes are endlessly explorable, its historic piazzas are energetic without feeling overrun, and it’s approachably sized, so you can get your head around it easily.

And then there’s the food. But when it comes to one of its most famous – mortadella – seven encounters over 30 hours taught us diehards that even true love has its bounds.

Wednesday September 27, 2023

1. (3.34pm): Aperitivo hour! Let the games begin. Flanked by locals (as many people as pigeons) at piazza hotspot Zanarini, snack platters come complimentary with our ice-cold Aperol Spritzes. Ciao, mini mortadella panini.

2. (6.11pm): And we’re off. Tipsy trundling takes us past Tigellino, where we inhale some Modenese tigelle: thin, round breads stuffed, in our case, with mortadella and pecorino.

3. (9.01pm): We come in hot for dinner at the repeatedly recommended Da Cesari for a plate of assorted cold cuts, basking in our mortadella momentum in wood-panelled, old-worldly surrounds.

Thursday

4. (11.55am): Sore heads don’t quell our deli-meat desires, and a “mortadelleria” sign beckons us to Pigro (“lazy” in Italian). No frills, no complaints. The owner speedily slices and slaps a mound of mortadella into haphazardly cut panini.

5. (1.31pm): A deep-fried delight at the popular Indegno La Crescentina 2.0 is precisely how not to beat the afternoon heat. In a golden fold of dough there’s the one-two punch of soft, spreadable squacquerone cheese and... more mortadella. Our spirits wane. We shuffle back to our Airbnb, heavy-footed.

6. (5.32pm): Post nap, we’re dazed, and so un-hungry it’s un-Italian. The Stanley Tucci-approved Salumeria Simoni appears like a mirage, swarming with tourists Searching for Italy. (It takes one to know one.) FOMO fuels an order of the house mortadella; just two of 12 silky slices get eaten.

7. (8.05pm): Deep breath. Thanks to a no-show at gorgeous laneway trattoria Grassilli we’re off the waitlist. But how we’re going to consume anything else, let alone mortadella, is a mystery. Gesù takes the wheel as our final serve arrives diced, not sliced – a cube-shaped revelation enough to subdue our pork-inflicted pain. Only if for the night.

Friday

11.13am: One single thing is on the agenda today: Mercato Delle Erbe, aka fresh-produce central. Ignoring any and all mortadella merchants, we stuff a tote bag full of fresh fruit and vegetables with the same ferocity as we stuffed our faces with those first panini.

“Fanculo la dieta”, sure. But sometimes, less really is more.

This story is part of The Travel Issue: Wish You Were Here.