Emilia-Romagna: Exploring Italy’s gastronomic gem one bite at a time

In a factory just outside Parma, a burly Italian man has his arm pit-deep in a giant copper vat filled with steaming curd which in just 72 months could become a 42kg wheel of the finest Parmigiano Reggiano in the world.

The cheese masters at Caseificio Gennari have been making their Parmesan in this way since 1953, when Maria and Sergio started making just three wheels a day in their villa. Seventy years later, the factory churns out 100 a day, with the newest generation of the family – Tino, Paolo, Andrea and Laura – at the helm.

I’m here with the Big Mamma group – the five-country-spanning trattoria chain best known in the UK for the loud and proud Gloria, Circolo Popolare, Ave Mario, Jacuzzi and the newly opened Carlotta – to learn more about where they source their prodotti. Caseificio Gennari is the main Parmigiano Reggiano supplier for all of their restaurants across the globe.

At the sight of a hairy arm stirring coagulated milk, I have questions. But this is a typical sight in the Gennari family’s factory, where their process is completely artisan and much of it done, quite literally, by hand – or in this case, arm. (I’m kidding: they also use a traditional whisk-like tool called a spino.)

The work actually begins the night before on the farm, where milk is collected from the 1,000 cows grazing on native grasses and hay. The Gennari family use three different breeds that produce vastly different taste profiles: the black and white Fresian (sweet and creamy), the Brown cow (even creamier), and the superior Red (the punchiest of Parmesan flavours). The milk is stored in tanks overnight, and a second milk collection is added in the morning. The cream is skimmed off and used for butter, before the whole 1,100 litres goes in the steamer for two weeks.

The milk is then transferred into copper vats, whey and rennet is added, and the concoction is stirred and heated until the curd is broken up, sinks to the bottom and forms one massive lump. It takes two equally burly Italians to heave the mass out of the vat – one wheel can weigh up to 42kg and they cook two per vat, so it’s somewhat of a workout – slice it into two pieces, and place in the moulds, where they are rested and turned for three days until they look less like a giant amorphous blob and more like a gourmet wheel of the hard Italian cheese we all know and love. (And if you don’t, are you okay?)

Bath time is next, specifically 21 days in a trough of 100 per cent salt water. This is where the cheese is infused with its distinct saltiness. Through osmosis, the wheels suck in the same amount of salt water as milky liquid they release. Amazingly, Caseificio Gennari has been using the same water since they started in 1953.

The story of this beloved cheese is a long one, and also a slow one: in fact, the minimum ageing time is 12 months, at which point a tester from the Consortium, whose job is to protect the authenticity of the cheese, arrives with a little hammer to tap the wheels and listen out for vibrations that may indicate a defect. Cheese whisperer, if you will. Most wheels at Caseificio Gennari go on to age for 24, 36, 40 or even 100 months. These are given different grades and hot iron brands depending on the quality. At Carlotta, Big Mamma’s newest opening on the high street in Marylebone, London, you’ll find it in the meatball and fettuccine alfredo and the crispy layered potatoes, as well as on top of the XL caesar salad, to name just a few.

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The “failures” that cannot be labelled as true Parmigiano Reggiano are taken away and might be sold in packets as grated or flaked Parmesan, as wedges of ambiguous “Italian hard cheese” or as an ingredient to restaurants. So if you ever feel guilty for buying pre-grated Parmesan, you shouldn’t. Sure, it’s not as good as the older stuff, but it’s come from the same place, and only the snobbiest of Italians will judge you for it.

In fact, DOC (Denominazione di Origine controllata) laws are as much a point of contention as they are big business in Italy. A recent Financial Times article by an Italian abroad claimed that most Italians don’t believe in the stringent rules by which their country’s produce is valued. Parmigiano Reggiano, for example, is only deemed such by the Consortium if it’s been produced in Parma or Reggio Emilia (hence the name), as well as in Modena and a small part of Bologna. Those rules, however, only apply within Europe so parmesan producers have popped up all over the world, much to the chagrin of die hard DOC fans. The Emilia-Romagna region, where the Caseificio Gennari factory is located, is a hotbed for DOC as it churns out the third highest gross domestic product per capita in the whole country.

It’s a similar story at San Nicola Prosciuttificio del Sole, a Prosciutto producer an hour’s drive away into the mountains. Its hilly locale is important: clean mountain air and salt on the wind from the sea nearby produce sweeter cured meats, the owner Mattia Zambroni tells us. It’s an equally lengthy production process that relies on just three ingredients: pork leg, salt and time.

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The ageing process begins when a salt master (yes, that’s the official job title) covers the legs in a combination of humid sea salt and dry salt and ends up to three years later after being hung in various curing rooms, some with high humidity and low light, others with ventilation and open windows. Only then will the ham whisperer arrive with a horse bone needle which is inserted into the meat and sniffed for quality before giving an official stamp of approval. If it’s had maggots in it, even better – it’ll make for a sweeter flavour. I’m not making this up. If you’ve got a problem with fermented food, you should probably steer clear of your local Italian. Or Big Mamma’s restaurants, for that matter, where you’ll find Prosciutto in the antipasti, and dishes such as the caesar salad and chicken parmigiana.

The needle sniff test isn’t the only stipulation for deciding whether a ham is real Prosciutto or just… well, ham. Zambroni tells us that a whole batch of pigs was refused after an inspector discovered that they had been fed on leftovers from a nearby pizzeria. Most Prosciutto pigs dine on Parmesan offcuts. When I asked if this would affect the taste, he said: “No, it simply wouldn’t be Prosciutto.” Like I said, DOC is big business (and big fuss) in Italy. San Nicola Prosciuttificio del Sole alone produces 130,000 15kg Prosciutto ham legs a year.

Emilia-Romagna is also home to two other key Big Mamma ingredients: Balsamic Vinegar of Modena and Lambrusco (fizzy red and rosé wine). Both are made at Venturini Baldini, a 16th-century family estate in the Matidilche Hills between Parma and Reggio Emilia, where the Prestia family have been championing a nature-first approach since they relaunched the brand in 2015.

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On the grounds is the Acetaia di Canossa, one of the largest and oldest vinegar cellars in the area – some of the balsamic barrels, lined up in rows and made from juniper, oak, cherry, ash or chestnut wood, date back to the 17th century. The history of balsamic actually originates in 1046, when English King Henry III, while on his way to meet the Pope in Rome, stopped in Piacenza and was gifted a vial of the stuff, back then used as a health tonic and not a salad dressing, by Matilda of Canossa, one of the most important political figures in Italy during the Middles Ages. He took it back to England, shared it with the aristocracy and it spread around the world. Many people still take a teaspoon every morning and make much of the benefits to their cholesterol.

On the Venturini Baldini estate, must (the sweet juice of freshly pressed grapes) from white Trebbiano and Lambrusco grapes grown in Modena and Reggio Emilia is boiled in huge cauldrons outdoors over a fire to reduce the volume and concentrate the sugars, then it acidifies and ferments for 12-25 years in wooden barrels. As it ages, it acquires flavour from the type of wood it’s resting in, and its acidity mellows. Once a year, a quantity of vinegar is removed from the smallest barrel to be bottled, and replenished with vinegar from the next barrel in the row, and so on and so forth up the line. This painstaking process is what makes true Balsamic Vinegar of Modena so expensive – some bottles at Venturini Baldini sell for €125 a pop. One teaspoon is enough to convince me to empty my savings, though. There’s a reason the sweet, dark syrup is known as “liquid gold” in these parts.

The 130-hectare estate, of which 30 hectares is vineyard growing Lambrusco, Sorbara, Grasparossa and Salamino grapes, also produces around 100,000 bottles of wine a year, or 8 tons per hectare. They actually have capacity for three times that, but limit their production to protect the environment and ensure only the highest quality of grapes make it into their wine. They use the Charmat method to produce their Lambrusco, which is quicker than the traditional Champagne method and can produce excellent sparkling wines in a matter of months, rather than years.

Sipping a chilled glass of their Cadelvento Rosé (fragrant, plummy, perfect for seafood) on the balcony of a 16th-century Italian villa in the sun, belly full of authentic Parmigiano Reggiano, Proscuitto and Balsamic Vinegar of Modena, is enough to convince me that the food at Big Mamma puts its money where its mouth is – or that I should just up sticks and move to Emilia Romagna for the good life.