So here I am, a 30-year-old white kid from a small town outside of Pittsburgh (Pitcairn, pop. 2,347). Watered down ethnically in every sense of the imagination, I'm invited by my boss/mentor, Lidia Bastianich, to accompany her and her fellow chefs to dissect her native country's cuisine over seven days.

We began this past Jan. 26 in Milan. Lidia was invited to participate in Identita Golose, a conference celebrating Italian cuisine. So there we were, five American chefs in the fashion capital of the world, assisting our boss in doing cooking demonstrations (conducting actual business, as I insisted to my wife when I told her about the trip).

We Americans stuck out like sore thumbs due to our size, weight and lack of fashion sense, but we all felt somewhat of a bond with our fellow chefs. The demo kitchens were like what we're used to -- lots of people running around, hot pans flying, visiting chefs and their teams toting in all of their ingredients. It was like a small-scale chef-a-palooza.

My mantra during the entire trip was, "I want my hair to be blown back by the quintessential meal." I wondered if I'd set my expectations too high, because during the two days in Milan, all of our meals lacked the necessary gusto. The only notable food occurred at our hotel, where a chef from Lucca was doing a dinner with all of the foods from his region. After some careful negotiations by Lidia and Joe Bastianich, our group of chef misfits was allowed in. We got our first true tastes of Italy: Hand-shaved prosciutto and other forms of salumi, regional cheeses and wines. The kind gentleman shaving the prosciutto was intimidated by three burly chefs squaring up to his table and salivating over every slice. The image that kept popping in my head was the sign "Don't feed the bears."

Day Three took us deep through Lombardy right to the edge of Piedmont, where we toured a small farm that specializes in carnaroli, and not just any carnaroli. This guy ages his rice for one full year. The passion that he conveyed to us in that wintry warehouse, about growing, processing and finally cooking rice, led me toward a heightened sense of food karma.

For lunch we headed to a homey place called Trattoria di Balin. Upon entering I smelled a waft of smoke from the fireplace and saw a table full of various salumi, plus a mother/daughter team waiting to fill us. Testa con arancini (eel with oranges), vitello tonnato (chilled veal in a tuna sauce), risotto with freshly shaved black truffles picked the morning before were some of the notable dishes. If you ever have the means, do go to the Piedmont to truly experience truffles.

After some wrong turns in foggy driving conditions, we came upon another trattoria-style restaurant called Caffe La Crespa. Again, I had the sense that we were moving toward our food climax. That night we all shared in 15 courses. The big hits were eel done three different ways: roulade, crudo (raw with olive oil and salt) and en saor (poached, sweet and sour). I've since learned that in swampy rice country, eels, frogs and other low forms of food come with the territory. Other memorable dishes that night were tripa (cow stomach), bolito misto (a peasant stew) and snails with veal heart.

Note to self: Pay attention to the signs when stopping at the Autostrada rest area. My apologies to the three women and the security guard that I upset by walking into the ladies' room.

Day Four, I'm getting closer, thanks to Galloni prosciutto. These people know their pigs. We were led to the rear end of the production facility, where I was immediately overcome by the sweet smell of raw pork legs. There were two butchers trimming the legs ever so delicately. Then the legs made their way to the salter -- one man whose sole purpose was to expertly salt each leg so that they could begin their 18-month journey to becoming the best hams in the world. Hams filled rack after rack, room after room, all filled to the ceiling with the monstrous hams. The air was intoxicating. I've never been addicted to a hard drug like crack or heroin, but I think I know the feeling. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to run between each row, romantically falling into each rack so that my clothes would be perfumed with that oh-so-sweet aroma.

The climax was when we entered a dark room, where a single light shone down upon a hand-cranked Berkel slicer. A soft operetta played in the background, and as the music's volume increased, so did the lighting. Voila: The finishing room. Our lunch was, of course, prosciutto, hand sliced, and many glasses of sweet and bubbly prosecco.

Afterward, we were once again rounded back up and placed in the ever-so-uncomfortable Land Rover to move on to a little-known area of Emilia Romagna, nestled against the River Po. We were taken to a trattoria called La Buca. If, by chance, my wife and I ever part ways (I really don't wish for this), I'm packing all that I have and moving in with this nonna. Her place was on a back country road, very farmhouse-looking, big dog sleeping out front, with a rosemary bush that would make any horticulturist jealous.

The food here, focused on what was fresh and in season, was by far the best part of the trip. We ordered everything that this little lady could muster up for us: duck, veal tongue, tripe, house-made mostardas (fruity mustards). At the center of it all was culatello, the most sought-after piece of the prosciutto. This cut is so rare that only now is it being imported into this country and is still unattainable for most chefs.

After the meal, the owner escorted us back to this small room off her kitchen. It was as if we had been transported into a hobbit's cave with various salamis curing in the mold-caked ceiling, wine barrels aging her house wine and rack after rack of wine of many vintages.

After this, I could have easily come back to Pittsburgh and been content. However, Lidia had much more in store for us. Our next stop was the prosciutto producer Principe, a compound that had a "bad guy movie" feel to it. I didn't expect that the rustic artisan food producer would turn out to be the Italian version of Roger Daltrey. The owner was an uncanny look-a-like.

We suited up in our sterile gowns, white hats and hospital slippers and toured this kind man's fantastic prosciutto factory. I felt like Charlie from "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." Instead of candy, there were pig legs. I'd tasted culatello before, but I'd never before in my life tasted anything like this, at the source. The culatello was sweet, in an animalistic sense, salty without being overpowering, and had an aroma that was unmistakable and untraceable. One can only say that the aroma came from the sweet air that rolled down from the mountains and delicately married with the hams as they sat lonely on their curing racks. Once it is packaged and travels 3,000 miles, it's not the same.

Last, but not least, Venice.

Just being there would be enough for the casual tourist, but we were there during Carnevale!

The front desk of our little hotel suggested a trattoria a kilometer away and off the beaten path. Luckily, we got reservations and were treated to some of the best seafood that I've ever consumed. Calamari that wasn't frozen but pulled fresh from the sea tasted sweet and didn't have that all-too-familiar "fishy" taste. Shrimp that just hours earlier were frolicking in the sea. Turbot that was cooked with potatoes, olive oil and left on the bone so that nothing was lost during the cooking process. All of this from a humble trattoria that had a staff of four, including two beautiful ladies in the kitchen, the owner and his daughter. I've never seen such passion. This place was so good that after finishing our meal, countless bottles of wine, two caffes correttos (maybe three of these coffees "corrected" with a shot of grappa), we made reservations for the next night! Let me tell you, I thought that they could not pull this off twice in two nights, and, boy, was I wrong.

The trip instilled in me a better sense of how Italian food should be served -- the company that you share it with, the time that it takes to arrive at the meal, the time you spend eating, drinking and discussing the food. When I look back on this trip I see it as a birthright that I was included in. All Italians have a God-given right to enjoy great food, and they stop at nothing to achieve this every day.

GNOCCHO FRITO

Chef Eric Wallace says he and his fellow chefs "melted over" this appetizer when they were served it in Modena, even though it's so simple -- "basically fried dough and shaved prosciutto." The little canapes can be garnished, as the ones they had were, with balsamic vinegar, mustards, even a fresh cheese such as mascarpone.

• 2 cups cake flour
• 2 cups heavy cream
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• Canola oil for frying
• Small amount of prosciutto shavings (about a half pound) for topping

Mix all ingredients into a soft tart-like dough. On a floured surface, roll out dough as thin as possible and cut into desired shapes.

Deep fry shapes in canola oil at 350 degrees until crispy.

Drain and top immediately with pieces of shaved prosciutto.

-- Eric Wallace, Lidia's Pittsburgh