BY ROBERTO MASSINI
You know what Venice is? A beautiful, sinking, tourist-packed maze where you’ll pay €15 for a limp Aperol Spritz and get elbowed by a cruise ship passenger with a selfie stick. No, my friend. We’re going to Padova. Just thirty minutes inland, and suddenly you’ve left the circus behind. This is where Italians actually eat.
This is a land of ancient universities, medieval markets, and food traditions so serious that grandmothers have been known to disown their children over bad risotto technique. This 5-day road trip isn’t just about seeing things—it’s about tasting them. Lots of them. Maybe even too many. But that’s something for future you to worry about.
DAY 1: ARRIVAL AND THE GREAT PIAZZA PANTRY RAID
You’ve landed, you’ve picked up your rental car (a tiny Fiat that will definitely struggle on the Prosecco hills, but that’s part of the fun), and now you’re in Padova. The first thing you’ll notice? This city has piazzas that actually work as living rooms. Not museum pieces. Living rooms.
Head straight to Piazza delle Erbe and Piazza della Frutta. These twin squares make up the most spectacular open-air market you’ll ever see. We’re talking piles of radicchio, stacks of artichokes, stalls overflowing with cheeses that smell like a farmyard (in a good way). The loggia of the Palazzo della Ragione looms overhead like a medieval shopping mall, and underneath it, Italians are having lively debates about which tomato is best for sauce. The answer is always the one their grandmother used.
Here’s the real Padova experience: buy a slice of focaccia from a bakery stall, grab a paper cup of wine from a vendor who looks like he’s been there since the 197s (because he has), and just… stand there. Watch the chaos. Listen to the haggling. This is the real Padova, not the cleaned-up version in guidebooks. The market has been running since the Middle Ages, and the spirit hasn’t changed at all—just the prices.
For lunch, you’ve got one mission: Osteria l’Anfora. This place is tucked away like a secret handshake near the old ghetto. The handwritten menu looks like your grandfather’s shopping list, and that’s exactly why it’s great. Order the bigoli. This is not your Instagram-friendly angel-hair pasta. This is thick, rough spaghetti that looks like someone made it in their shed—because someone probably did, using a traditional press. It comes with duck ragù, and it’s the kind of dish that makes you close your eyes while eating. Silence falls over the table. That’s the sound of respect.
HUMOR BREAK: If you’re thinking about asking for pasta with chicken, just don’t. Italians will look at you the way you’d look at someone pouring ketchup on a wedding cake. Chicken pasta is a crime against humanity in this country. Stick to the duck. Trust the duck.
DAY 2: GIOTTO, GALILEO, AND GOING FULL BOILED MEAT
Alright, culture day. But we’re doing it with a full stomach.
Start at the Scrovegni Chapel. Giotto’s frescoes are truly breathtaking—we’re talking 14th-century masterpieces that look like they were painted yesterday. Book in advance. No, really. Book in advance. The chapel only lets in small groups because the frescoes are fragile and precious, and also because if they let everyone in at once, the humidity would literally melt the art. So plan ahead, or you’ll be standing outside looking sad, and nobody wants that.
Then waddle over to the Basilica of St. Anthony. The domes are Byzantine, the crowds are international, and the energy is genuinely moving—even if you’re not religious, there’s something about a place that’s been a pilgrimage site for 800 years. It’s got that heavy, layered feeling of a building that’s absorbed millions of whispered prayers.
But you came here to eat, right? Good.
Lunch is at Ristorante Vecchia Padova. This place looks like it should be in a painting. The walls are warm, the service is charmingly chaotic, and the menu is unapologetically traditional. This is where you order the gran bollito misto alla padovana—a glorious tower of boiled meats. And yes, you might be thinking, “Boiled meat? That sounds like my grandmother’s punishment dinners.” Stop. This is different. This is a 17th-century dish loved by Galileo himself (he taught at the university here, which makes him the most overqualified food critic ever). The meats are simmered until they’re fall-apart tender, served with a bright salsa verde that cuts through the richness, and it’s basically a hug on a plate.
AUTHENTIC EXPERIENCE: The waiter will bring the bollito out on a trolley and carve it at your table. Just nod and smile like you know what’s happening. Nobody really knows what’s happening. This is part of the show. Ask for extra salsa verde. They’ll like you for it.
Afternoon is for wandering. The University of Padova has the world’s oldest anatomical theatre—a wooden structure that looks like a spiral staircase from a horror movie, where students once watched dissections. It’s fascinating, strange, and very, very Italian.
Now, evening. The golden hour. You want a Spritz? Of course you do. But here’s the thing: Aperol Spritz was invented in this region, and the locals know how to make it right. Find a piazza with outdoor seating, order a Spritz (red or orange, doesn’t matter), and ask for a plate of cicchetti—those little snacks that look like they’re trying to be tapas but are actually much better. Marinated sardines, tiny sandwiches with anchovies, fried polenta with cheese. It’s not dinner; it’s a pre-dinner ritual. Embrace it.
Dinner at A Banda Del Buso. This place is split into two restaurants: one for meat, one for fish. You can pick either, but honestly, the real trick is to go with a friend and order from both, then share. This is the closest you’ll get to a Padovan food hall. The setting is rustic, the portions are generous, and the locals will outnumber tourists 10 to 1. That’s how you know it’s good.
DAY 3: THE PROSECCO ROAD—WHERE HILLS DRINK BACK
You’ve spent two days in the city. Now we’re going vertical.
North of Padova lies the Prosecco region—the UNESCO-protected hills between Conegliano and Valdobbiadene. And let me tell you, driving through these hills is like being inside a wine commercial. Vineyards spill down slopes so steep you’ll wonder how the grape pickers don’t just roll all the way to the bottom. The roads are narrow, winding, and absolutely beautiful.
First stop: a family-run winery. Not a huge commercial operation—a real one. You’ll find them just by driving and following the signs that say degustazione (tasting). Pull up, ring the bell, and someone’s nonno will appear in a faded apron and offer you a glass of Prosecco. This isn’t the cheap stuff you get in plastic cups at weddings. This is Prosecco Superiore, made from the glera grape, and it has complexity, minerality, and bubbles so fine they feel like tiny explosions of joy.
HUMOR BREAK: You will be offered several glasses before 11 AM. This is normal. Do not resist. The hills are old and the wine is young, and you’ve got a designated driver. (And if that designated driver is you? Spit, don’t swallow. We need you to make it to lunch.)
Lunch at Ristorante Barbesin. This place is a destination, not a quick stop. The menu is modern Venetian cuisine, which sounds fancy but really means they take traditional flavours and mess with them just enough to keep things fun. The wine list is dangerously long. The view is ridiculously beautiful. And the risotto? Unreal. This is where you slow down, order a second bottle, and accept that the rest of the day might just be spent staring at hills.
Afternoon: village hopping. Follina. Santo Stefano. These are postcard towns where the church bells ring every hour like they’re announcing the end of the world, but it’s just lunch. Walk the cobblestone streets, find a little bar, and have another Spritz. You’re on holiday. Nobody’s counting.
DAY 4: THE EUGANEAN HILLS—VOLCANIC SOIL, ANCIENT OLIVES, AND A POET’S GHOST
Today we go south of Padova, to the Euganean Hills Regional Park. This is volcanic land, which means the soil is rich, the hills are dramatic, and the olive oil is incredibly good. Like, “smuggle-it-home-in-your-suitcase” good.
Morning: visit an olive oil mill. Not a shop—an actual mill where they press the olives. You’ll see giant granite wheels crushing the fruit, you’ll smell the grassy, peppery aroma of fresh oil, and you’ll taste oil so green it almost glows. The locals will explain the difference between first-press, cold-press, and all the other terms that don’t matter because you’ve already decided to buy three bottles.
Then it’s Arquà Petrarca. This is one of Italy’s most beautiful villages, and I don’t say that lightly. It’s where the poet Petrarca (Petrarch to you English-speakers) spent his last years, writing sonnets and probably eating a lot of good food. The streets are steep and narrow, the houses are covered in flowers, and the whole place feels like a medieval fairy tale. There’s even a house dedicated to the poet himself, complete with his study and some surprisingly well-preserved manuscripts.
But the real star here? The giuggiole. Jujubes. These quirky little fruits look like dates, taste like apples crossed with caramel, and have been grown here since ancient times. The village even has a festival for them. You can find them candied, dried, or made into a liqueur. Try all three. For science.
AUTHENTIC EXPERIENCE: Find a local trattoria, order the bigoli again (but with a Euganean twist—maybe sardine sauce this time), and ask the waiter for a wine recommendation. He’ll probably bring you a local red from the volcanic slopes. Drink it. Thank him. Feel superior to everyone still in Venice.
Afternoon: thermal waters at Abano Terme. The Romans came here to soak, and so should you. The water is warm, sulphurous, and smells like eggs, but your muscles will thank you. You’ve been driving, eating, and drinking for three days straight. You’ve earned this.
DAY 5: CHIOGGIA—THE UNDERDOG OF THE LAGOON
Final day. We’re going to the coast.
Chioggia is sometimes called “Little Venice,” which is unfair because it’s not trying to be Venice. It’s Chioggia. It’s colourful, chaotic, fishing-obsessed, and completely unpretentious. The canals are narrow, the boats are battered, and the fish market is one of the most authentic experiences you’ll have in all of Italy.
Start at the morning fish market. This is not a tourist attraction. This is where chefs and housewives come to argue over the freshest catch. The Adriatic bounty is laid out on ice—branzino, orata, seppia, gò (goby fish), and a hundred other species you’ve never heard of. The fishermen will shout prices, the buyers will shout back, and it’s basically a theatre performance with dead fish as the cast.
HUMOR BREAK: If you can’t tell the difference between a gò and a sardina, just nod and say “bellissimo” to everything. It works for 90% of Italian interactions.
Lunch is the main event. Find a trattoria overlooking the lagoon. Order the risotto di gò. This is the signature dish of Chioggia—creamy, saffron-tinted risotto with tiny goby fish that melt into the rice. It’s the taste of the lagoon itself: briny, umami, and unforgettable. Pair it with a glass of white wine from the Euganean Hills, and you’re basically eating the entire Veneto region in one meal.
After lunch, wander the canals. Watch the fishermen mend their nets. Buy some peoci (mussels) from a street vendor. Resist the urge to compare this place to Venice, because Chioggia doesn’t need the competition. It’s doing its own thing, and it’s wonderful.
FINAL THOUGHTS: THE BELLY’S JOURNEY
Five days. Five distinct food experiences. From a bustling medieval market in Padova to a sparkling wine on a UNESCO hillside, from a volcanic olive oil tasting to a lagoon-side risotto. This trip wasn’t about ticking off sights—it was about eating the landscape.
And yes, you’ve gained a couple of kilos. But those kilos came with stories. You learned why chicken pasta is a sin. You found out that Prosecco before noon is not only acceptable but encouraged. You ate meat boiled in 17th-century style and fish caught that very morning. You argued with market vendors, nodded at winemakers, and soaked in thermal baths like a Roman emperor.
Padova and its surrounding hills are not a tourist trap. They’re a food lover’s playground, a slow-travel paradise, and—most importantly—a place where the wine flows, the pasta is handmade, and nobody’s in a hurry.
Except, maybe, to get seconds.
PRACTICAL TIPS FOR THE JOURNEY:
- Car: Get a small one. The Prosecco hills are narrow.
- Language: Learn “grazie” and “un altro bicchiere, per favore.” You’ll need both.
- Reservations: Book Scrovegni Chapel before you leave home. Trust me.
- Cash: Many small places don’t accept cards. Keep €50 in your pocket.
- Pace: This is not a race. It’s a slow, indulgent crawl. Enjoy it.
Now go. Eat. Drink. Be merry. And if someone offers you chicken pasta? Run.