Silvia hails from the food capital of Italy – Bologna, in Emilia-Romagna, where tortellini is practically a religion and veal is treated with the reverence of fine silk.

Her grandmother, Lucrezia, was part of the original sfogline – the women of Bologna famous for rolling pasta so thin it could be read through like a love letter. Silvia’s mother, Bianca, ran a trattoria with no sign out front because everyone just knew where to go. Between the two of them, Silvia was raised on flour, veal, and gossip over grappa.

She was taught that tortellini wasn’t just a pasta – it was a symbol. Legend in Bologna says tortellini were shaped after the navel of Venus herself. Silvia didn’t care if that was true – she just cared that each fold was symmetrical, sealed tight, and that the veal was ground fresh by hand, never by machine.

Her signature filling includes a whisper of veal, Parmesan, and a touch of nutmeg – a recipe older than most cathedrals. She serves her tortellini in brodo, as is tradition, but insists the broth must be made with love and two days of patience.

Silvia says:

“If tortellini don’t make you close your eyes and sigh, you’re doing it wrong.”