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I am a colossal fool, completely uncultured, uneducated, unable even to spell opara, poorly dressed, but fortunately not quite ugly enough to have to put a bag over my head. You get the drift though, I’m sure.

You see, I was in Italy, taking in the sights, marvelling at the churches and galleries, taking wine with my meals, eating spaghetti with a fork and spoon like the Italians do. I thought I was cultured; I thought I knew Italy. But when I rolled into Parma, I realised how ignorant I am.

The train station was inconspicuous, with most trains arriving and departing late, while a cast of derelict extras bandied about as is the norm in Italian cities. I wandered towards the old town, along Via Giuseppe Verdi and then under the towers of the enormous Pilotta Palace which looks more like a prison than a royal residence. A narrow bridge took me across the Parma River and into the Parco Ducale to see another palace. I took a turn around the garden, a wistful smile on my face; Parma certainly was a delightful place, and I liked the green areas, the water, and the slow pace. But the city had a rather strange smell, sweet and warm yet with a pong that made you wrinkle your nose.

I meandered back into the old town and passed the famed opara house the Regio Theatre. There was to be a concert that night, La Traviata it was called, by some chap named Verdi; I assumed he was perhaps a local hero and so bought a ticket. I then spent a sufficient amount of time in the cathedral admiring the altar and ceiling. (Though I must confess after several weeks of seeing churches in all parts of Italy, I can’t help but feel they all look the same; I see fat cherubs when I close my eyes like they are sunspots.)

My humble hotel was nearby and I checked in. The ancient receptionist, who was a few years younger than God, advised me to eat at such and such a restaurant and to try the Pesto di Cavallo. My word that sounded good, and you can’t go wrong with pesto. I headed for the restaurant, consulting my phrasebook on the way. Cavallo was horse. I think the receptionist was having a joke with me. But I still walked towards the restaurant, down the shopping stretch of Strada Della Republica and across the Piazza Garibaldi. There’s a statue of Garibaldi too, looking proud, earnest and somewhat rotund, and he had a head full of hair; I wonder who he was?

The restaurant was empty, which I’m told is never a good sign. Perhaps I was too late; it was almost 7pm. The waiter looked at me with consternation, as if I’ve walked in when the restaurant was closed. Unperturbed, I took a seat. Pesto di Cavallo was on the menu but I ordered anolini, beef filled pasta served with gravy. I asked the waiter for a local wine and he served me a cold, red champagne called Lambrusco, so fizzy it was like drinking sherbet. But I nodded approvingly, showing him what a wine aficionado I am. He then served my meal and rather impudently splashed parmesan over the top. I scowled at him. He looked surprised and innocently held up his hands.

‘Everything comes with cheese,” he said. “Why?” questioned I. The waiter knitted his bushy eyebrows together and cocked his head slightly. “This is Parma, home of Parmigiano.” “What’s that?” The waiter’s mouth dropped open and I could see his tongue was velvet red. He came over to me and thrust the small cheese bowl in my face. “Parmesan.” “Really? I always thought it came from America.” The waiter took a short step backwards, the cheese bowl clattered on the table but not a grain was spilt. He began to laugh, holding his sides as each peel of laughter rolled from his throat. His shoulders bounced up and down and I was thankful the restaurant was empty. Still guffawing, the waiter slipped into the kitchen.

The anolini was good but the cheese tasted the same as parmesan does everywhere. I could hear roaring laughter coming from the kitchen but I was determined not to be embarrassed. How was I to know parmesan was from Parma? The waiter came out with the cook in tow. Both of their faces were red and the waiter’s eyes were glistening. They spoke in a frenzy of Italian, pointing at me as they talked and laughed. The cook kept shaking his head in disbelief, and the waiter ducked behind the bar. He came back with another bottle of Lambrusco and then both men sat down at my table.

“You Americans are so stupid,” said the waiter as he poured the liquid sherbet. “Hey,” I protested, “I’m Australian.” The waiter shrugged his shoulders as if this made no difference. The cook then started babbling incoherently and the waiter nodded his head. “He says you should go to the factory,” the waiter explained. “What factory?” The waiter shook his head. “The Parmigiano factory.” He said something in Italian to the cook and the cook laughed so hard, Lambrusco came out of his nose. I paid and left.

The opara was good (I wonder if you can get this chap Verdi on CD) and the next morning I set off in search of a parmesan factory. The woman at the tourist office explained that tours had to be booked 20 days in advance, but seemed to take pity on my ignorance and made a few quick phone calls. I could do the tour tomorrow.

I killed the day, visited the palaces again, the Stuard Gallery and the Farnese Theatre. Parma is a very nice indeed, cultured and interesting but without the hustle and bustle of the tourists of Tuscany. Indeed, there doesn’t seem to be any tourists at all in Parma; I guess I’m not the only one ignorant about the origin of the local cheese.

How fascinating the factory was, and boy what an aroma. I don’t know how they work there without gas masks. The tour is free, takes two hours and follows the entire process of making parmesan. The guide explained they add rennet, an enzyme from the stomach of calves, which causes the milk to curdle. Then, a balloon whisk called a spino is used to stir the curdled milk and make it smooth. The cheese is then heated, lifted from the cauldron, and placed in the special mold for 3 days. The blocks are then salted in brine for 20 days and aged for two years. So much work and time for just a measly block of cheese.

I had thought the factory might be run by same made recluse dolled up like a cartoon character who had spent years locked away perfecting this cheese making recipe. But no, the factory is very organised and far from eccentric; they’ve been making the cheese the same way for over 800 years.

Stepping outside, I took lusty gulps of fresh air, but even the air here stank of cheese. I spoke with the tour guide, thanking him and asking more questions about parmesan. “Of course, there’s also the ham,” the guide conceded. “We cheesemakers are not the sole gastronomical kings of Parma.” “What ham?” I asked. The guide gave me a look similar to the one the waiter had given me, somewhere between confusion and mockery. “Why, Prosciutto, Parma ham. You can buy it everywhere in the world, and you can tour the factory where they make it.” I sighed heavily. “Your kidding me. Prosciutto is from Parma too?”

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