Tortellini in Brodo

Legend says an innkeeper, spying on a goddess through a keyhole, was so taken by Venus's navel that he ran to the kitchen to reproduce it in pasta. The truth is homelier and better: generations of nonne sfogline rolling sheets thin enough to read through, cutting squares the width of three fingers, dotting each with a filling of mortadella, prosciutto, pork loin, parmesan and nutmeg, and folding them around a fingertip — a twist, a press, a navel.

The broth is non-negotiable: capon — an old rooster grown fat and mild — simmered to a clear gold that smells like every Sunday at once. Tortellini in cream is a crime of the export market; in Bologna the little parcels swim, and the spoon brings up pasta and broth together, the whole dish in every mouthful.

At Trattoria Anna Maria on Day 3, under walls papered with photographs of opera singers, the tortellini arrive by the dozen in a shallow lake. Anna Maria's sfogline have been folding since before dawn. Count the folds if you can; they cannot be counterfeited by machine.