Ham Catacombs, Vinegar Attics, and More Quirky Expeditions in Italy’s Unique Food Museums

Only in Italy can a quest for a museum lead you to a ham catacomb. I had braved a fierce storm seeking the Museum of Culatello, dedicated to the story of the country’s rarest prosciutto, housed within Antica Corte Pallavicina, a 14th-century castle near the Po River. Upon reaching the imposing structure in the torrential rain and pushing open a wooden door, I found the place eerily deserted. The castle’s dim interior felt like an abandoned opera house, with stunning frescoed rooms and antique chandeliers.

Amidst the rolling thunder, I heard a sound from below, prompting me to descend a stone staircase into the ominous dark. As my eyes adjusted, I discovered an underground labyrinth, surrounded by thousands of hams dangling from the rafters like alien pods. The scent was musty and undeniably organic, reminiscent of a medieval butcher’s shop—certainly a vegetarian's nightmare, but pure magic for me.

My unexpected journey to the ham catacomb (enthusiasts prefer the more refined cantina di prosciutto, though it seems to lack a certain charm) began several days prior when I embarked on a self-guided culinary Grand Tour of Emilia-Romagna, the region nestled between Venice and Florence, revered by Italian food lovers. Many travelers recognize its two major cities, Bologna and Parma, known for Bolognese sauce and Parmigiano-Reggiano, staples of those romantic red-sauce restaurants from New York to Sydney. Recently, the area has gained fame for the acclaimed Osteria Francescana, a Modena restaurant by local chef Massimo Bottura.

However, Emilia-Romagna's true culinary treasures are crafted with obsessive artistry and deeply rooted in their locales—perhaps explaining why the region boasts the world's highest concentration of unique food museums. These museums often showcase the specialties they highlight, merging two delightful aspects of travel: the intellectual allure of the museum and the sensory pleasure of dining. But can a meal truly be enhanced by spending hours in such an intellectual environment? I felt compelled to undertake a noble quest, traversing the land to learn—and savor—as much as possible.

My adventure commenced in Bologna, the regional capital affectionately known as La Grassa, or “the fat one,” due to its food-centric culture. From my base in a 13th-century inn, the Art Hotel Commercianti, with balconies so close to the Gothic spires of the Basilica di San Petronio that I could nearly reach out and touch them, I wandered through long arcades that cast enchanting shadows. I paid homage to Europe’s oldest university, the University of Bologna, founded in 1088, which continues to buzz with student life. Nearby, I ascended one of the last two towers precariously standing over the city, erected by eccentric aristocrats during the Middle Ages.

Bologna boasts the largest branch of the Italian food market Eataly, yet it hardly needs it. The city’s winding alleyways are filled with charming salumerias, their tables overflowing onto the sidewalks with impressive stacks of cheese and ham. The city’s oldest restaurant, Osteria del Cappello, has thrived since at least 1379, and even its placemats exude tradition. They feature a culinary dice game created in 1712, resembling snakes and ladders, highlighting reviews of the city’s many osterias. The Osteria del Cappello itself, as the placemat revealed, once offered partridge lard with croutons, but now delights guests with an inventive variety of pasta that transcends the usual Bolognese fare.

I inquired with the chef, Marco Franchini, about other osterias from the dice game that might still be open. Only one, he replied—Osteria del Sole. Venturing down another lane, I stumbled upon a bustling tavern, its walls adorned with faded photographs of patrons long gone. It was simple but had an ambiance reminiscent of a Visconti film. This was where the locals relaxed, bringing their own picnic fare while sipping Lambrusco for just two euros a glass. It's a wonder the entire city isn’t perpetually inebriated.

Navigating my silver Fiat through Bologna’s ancient streets and onto the autostrada felt like a professional driving challenge, but the reward came when I veered off for my first stop, the village of Spilamberto, home to the magnificent Museum of Traditional Balsamic Vinegar. A sculpture resembling a droplet of black vinegar and a shop selling balsamic gelato confirmed I was in the right place—along with the enticing aroma wafting into the street in sweet and sour waves. Traditional balsamic, handcrafted around Modena, is aged for 12 to 25 years, with the slowly evaporating liquid transferred into progressively smaller barrels. “We name the barrels,” explained director Cristina Sereni, gesturing toward one adorned with a hand-sewn sash reading emma. “Most are named female, some male, but we also have nonbinary barrels.”

Finally, we ascended to the “vinegar loft.” The most historic barrels were seized from the Duke of Modena by Napoleon in 1796 but preserved by a local bank; another set belonged to an even more renowned figure, Chef Bottura. The attic felt like a sacred space, a feeling heightened when Sereni guided me to an altar-like table and solemnly poured two drops onto tasting spoons. “You are about to experience a symphony of flavors,” she said. The 12-year-old vecchio (aged) vinegar burst with rich sweetness and acidity, while the 25-year-old extra vecchio was a velvety nectar that left me breathless. I staggered out past a gift shop selling tiny flutes of the latter for $90 each. “It’s a flawed business model,” Sereni remarked. “Balsamic vinegar was never about profit. It was originally made for family or religious celebrations, a small piece of the heart shared.”

In the province of Parma, Italy’s agricultural heartland, there are no fewer than eight food museums nestled in a landscape that has been cultivated since ancient times. I maneuvered my Fiat into the increasingly narrow streets of the city, passing bewildered cappuccino drinkers at outdoor cafes, to reach my hotel, the Palazzo Dalla Rosa Prati. The provincial capital, also named Parma, is more refined and tranquil than the student-filled Bologna, yet equally quirky. It is home to Europe’s first modern theater, the 17th-century Farnese, and was once the residence of Napoleon's second wife, Marie Louise of Hapsburg. She infused the city with a French flair—dubbed "the Paris of Italy"—and a Gallic penchant for horse meat, which is served as carpaccio in bloody, circular patties. (A Museum of Horse Meat has yet to be established, so it remains a rare delicacy.)

One of the delightful aspects of my culinary journey was discovering charming rural locations that I might never have encountered otherwise. Just north of Parma, along a serene, tree-lined road near Collecchio, an 11th-century Benedictine monastery is home to both the Museum of Pasta and the Museum of the Tomato. The most captivating displays at the latter focused on the evolution of can labels — a century ago, shoppers who couldn’t read identified brands through their eye-catching designs — and my personal favorite, a quirky collection of can openers resembling medieval torture devices.

In the Museum of Pasta, a lengthy wall showcased 300 distinct pasta shapes, complete with a touch screen to pair each with its perfect sauce. My guide, Stefania Bertaccini, remarked: “If you indulge in pasta twice a day, you need a variety of shapes to keep it exciting!” Inspired, I hurried to the café-restaurant, where I settled at an outdoor table and ordered cappelletti in brodo di cappone, delicious meat-stuffed pasta in capon sauce, imagining the Benedictine monks tending their herb gardens in this same picturesque courtyard during past luncheons.

Equally idyllic — and eccentric — was the Museum of Parmigiano Reggiano, dedicated to Parma's beloved cheese, nestled in a circular farmhouse from 1848 beneath the stunning walled village of Soragna. It featured a special section on the patron saint of cheesemakers, a shepherd named Lucio, who could miraculously cause sheep to reproduce, along with what might be the largest collection of cheese graters in the world, which looked almost as menacing as the can openers. The tour concluded at a delicatessen, where I blissfully savored a piece of 36-month aged cheese.

At this point, I risked becoming overwhelmed by culinary knowledge. Should I visit the Museum of Felino Salami, dedicated to a spicy sausage? Or perhaps the Museum of the Marinated Eel? I decided to go for the crème de la crème: Emilia-Romagna is renowned for its ham, and I still needed to sample culatello, Italy’s rarest and most esteemed pork delicacy. With only 30,000 culatellos produced annually, and most remaining in the Po Valley, it was no surprise that I found myself wandering through the cobwebbed darkness beneath thousands of hanging hams.

After a few bewildering moments, a familiar voice rang out: “Chi è? Who’s there?” The cheerful manager, Giovanni Lucci, guided me back into the light. I had arrived at the Antica Corte Pallavicina, a magnificent 14th-century castle that once served as a marchese’s residence in the village of Polesine Parmense. It offered far more than a museum and an expansive curing cellar for 5,500 culatellos — it also featured a dozen hotel rooms, a functioning pig farm, and its crown jewel, a Michelin-starred restaurant.

As the rain continued to hammer down, I settled into a room with a view of the castle gardens. At dusk, I made my way to the restaurant, where I sank into a regal velvet chair by a stone fireplace, surrounded by gilt-framed paintings and a vaulted ceiling adorned with a faded trompe l’oeil. The candlelit dinner took place in a glass-walled extension and began with the cherished culatello, sliced so thin it was nearly translucent, each bite bursting with flavor. Chef Massimo Spigaroli made regular rounds, sharing the ham’s intriguing history, which translates to “little ass.” The maturation process, lasting one to three years, has remained unchanged since the 13th century, with prices soaring up to $750 each. When the Po River flooded the cellar in 2000, Lucci recalled, “We said: ‘First, save the ham!’” with a chuckle. “Then the women and children!”

It wasn't until the following day that I realized I had overlooked the actual museum. I meandered through the exhibits but found myself irresistibly drawn outside to bask in the morning sun, strolling along a shaded canal to a pasture where black pigs reveled in the mud. (“They live quite well,” Lucci had mentioned. “For two years. Then…” He mimed a slicing motion across his throat. “Not so great.”)

I settled in the sun-drenched courtyard, observing bees flit around the blossoms, savoring culatello and Parmigiano drizzled with aged balsamic — the quintessential Emilia-Romagna experience. It was almost overwhelming for the senses. I felt a twinge of guilt for not engaging more with the museum. Yet, without its allure, I would never have been drawn to this hidden Italian gem in the first place.

A version of this story first appeared in the October 2020 issue of Dinogo magazine under the headline A Cultural Feast.