It’s not just meat. It’s a breed. It’s character. It’s the flavor of a region that doesn’t surrender to intensive farming, industrial feed, soulless meat. It’s Romagna that doesn’t give up.

It wasn’t a product. It was an almost sealed fate. But someone decided not to let it die.

A pig that looks like a wild boar

It’s not a normal pig.

The Mora Romagnola is immediately recognizable. Dark, almost black fur — hence the name, mora like the dark color, like the blackberries that grow on hedges in autumn. Almond-shaped eyes, almost oriental cut. And the boars — the males — have long tusks that make them look more like wild boars than pigs.

Someone looks at them and says: “Are you sure?”.

It is closer to the wild boar, in fact. Genetically, it has remained wilder than the breeds selected in the last century. It has not been domesticated to become a block of meat on four legs, like the industrial breeds you see in documentaries on intensive farming. It has remained an animal. With all that means: character, instinct, strength.

And the strength of the Mora is not just in its character.

It’s in its meat. In the fat you don’t expect. In that flavor you won’t find in any other pig in the world.

Because the true secret of the Mora cannot be seen with the naked eye.

It’s under the skin.

It has a higher percentage of intramuscular fat than industrial breeds. We are not talking about lard — the white fat you see under the rind, separated, visible. We are talking about the fat within the meat, the one that makes it tender, that makes it melt in your mouth, that releases flavor as you chew. In technical jargon it is called marbling. In Romagnolo it is called “ad è bona” — and it’s good.

While modern breeds — Large White above all — have been selected to be lean and grow quickly, the Mora has remained ancient. Slow. Fatty. Flavorful. It grows slower than all the others. Much slower. It reaches slaughter weight when industrial breeds have already been slaughtered for months. It’s not good for the industry, which wants a quick cycle, a lean carcass, a standardized product.

All the same. All clean. All anonymous.

Paradoxically, that fat — which almost led it to extinction when the industry chose lean meat — is today considered its greatest asset. Because the fat of the Mora is not just taste: it is complexity, it is history, it is a journey in a bite. It is good fat. Fat that tastes of what the animal ate: acorns, grass, roots, chestnuts, in the silence of the Valmarecchia woods. Fat that speaks of the territory that generated it. Fat you won’t find on supermarket labels.

From 22,000 to 15: the rescue story

1949.

In Romagna there are about 22,000 Mora Romagnola pigs.

Twenty-two thousand.

There’s a black and white photo, somewhere, that shows them: a herd of black pigs in a field. It looks like a postcard from an era that won’t return. A rural world that was still breathing, that was still producing for itself, that still had its animals, its breeds, its flavors.

A few years ago, fewer than 15 were left.

Fifteen.

In all of Romagna. In all of Italy. In the whole world.

It’s not a typo. It’s not an exaggeration for effect. Fifteen animals. Fewer than the fingers of two hands. A breed that had existed for centuries — perhaps millennia — reduced to a handful of animals kept alive by the stubbornness of one man.

Mario Lazzari.

A breeder from Faenza. Alone. Without funding. Without spotlights. Without a press office to tell his story. He guarded the last specimens like a family secret. He kept them alive when no one believed in that breed anymore. When everyone said: “Give up, Mario, it’s not worth it. The future is industrial lean. The future is Large White. Forget about that old rubbish.”

He didn’t give up.

He continued to breed them. In silence. On his farm. With his feed. With his patience. For years.

Without Lazzari, today we would talk about the Mora Romagnola as we talk about the dodo — the Mauritian bird that disappeared in the 1600s — or the thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger that went extinct in the last century. Extinct species, only mentioned in books, in natural history museums, in BBC documentaries. A chapter in an encyclopedia of lost biodiversity. “Once upon a time there was a black pig in Romagna… beautiful, isn’t it? Too bad it no longer exists.”

Instead, the Mora is still here.

It has tough skin and dark fur. It still runs through the fields of Romagna. And if you’re lucky, you’ll also find it on your plate.

Then came the Slow Food Presidium. A project that brought together breeders and producers from the provinces of Ravenna, Forlì-Cesena and Rimini. They gathered the few remaining animals. They created an association. They established precise rules: semi-wild breeding, no sheds, no industrial feed, no routine antibiotics. Pastures, woods, clean air.

Today the Mora is back. It’s not easy to find — it’s not a mass product, it never will be — but it’s there. It exists again. And when you taste it, you understand why it was worth saving. Because it’s not just a piece of meat: it’s a piece of history.

From sausage to culatello: how to eat it

The Mora is versatile. But each preparation tells a different story. And each story has its moment, its season, its ritual.

Fresh sausage — the gateway

The simplest. The truest. The one that conquers everyone.

Take a Mora sausage. Put it on the grill. No need to marinate, no need to season — the meat speaks for itself. The intramuscular fat melts with the heat, keeps the meat tender, releases an aroma that is not like the pork you know. It is deeper, more animal, more honest. The scent spreads in the air, attracting neighbors, relatives, passers-by, anyone with a functioning nose.

You can hear it cooking: the sizzle of fat falling on the coals, the rising smoke. Anyone passing by a barbecue where Mora is cooking stops. Sniffs. Asks. Sooner or later everyone asks the same question: “What is that?”.

At the first bite — the skin crackles under your teeth. The filling melts like butter. The fat mixes with bread, with warm piadina just taken from the griddle. It’s not a sausage. It’s a business card. It’s the introduction of the Mora to those who have never tasted it.

And usually, after the first, a second comes. Then a third. Then someone asks where to buy it.

It always works like that.

Culatello — where the Mora becomes poetry

Here the Mora excels. Here you understand why it was worth saving it from intensive farming and oblivion.

Cured meats develop a complexity that industrial cured meats cannot even approach. It’s the fat’s fault — that fat that was once considered a defect, a problem, something to eliminate. In curing, fat becomes the vehicle of flavor. It carries the aromas, amplifies them, transforms them into something memorable.

A Mora culatello is not like Parma’s. The meat is darker. The fat is yellower, richer, more alive. The flavor is more decisive, almost wild. Slice it thin, put it on your tongue and let it melt. Close your eyes. You will feel the woods, the acorns, the winter in the hills.

It’s not a cured meat for beginners.

It’s a cured meat for those who have already eaten enough mediocre cured meats and finally want to know what real flavor is like.

The raw shoulder — less famous than culatello, but equally good — has a surprising sweetness. Less intense, more accessible. It melts on the tongue like a secret. You want a second piece before you’ve finished the first. And a third. And then you only stop because there’s none left.

Ribs, cracklings, roasts — the peasant tradition

In the Romagnola peasant tradition, nothing of the pig was thrown away.

Every part had a use. Every cut a recipe. Every recipe a name in dialect. The ribs — “i custli” — cook slowly, on low heat, for hours until the meat falls off the bone. The cracklings — “i zizoli” — the real ones, are crispy outside and soft inside. Not the ones from the supermarket, dry and sad like sawdust. Mora cracklings are another category: you bite them and feel the fat melting, the rind crackling, the flavor filling your mouth and never leaving.

A Mora chop is not like the ones you’ve eaten at the supermarket. It’s thicker. More marbled. With that streak of fat running through it from one side to the other, which in the pan melts and seasons the meat by itself, without needing to add anything. No need to marinate. No need to spice. Coarse salt, a drizzle of good oil, a hot pan. And off you go.

That’s how Mora is: the simpler you make it, the better it tastes.

Slow roasts — the triumph of flavor

There’s another way to eat Mora, which few know: slow roasting.

A cut of shoulder, or leg, baked at low temperature for hours. The intramuscular fat progressively melts, basting the meat from within, keeping it tender. The result is a texture you won’t forget: slightly crispy outside, so tender inside that you can cut it with a spoon.

Served with roasted potatoes — those that cook in the same pan, soaking up the dripping fat — it becomes the Sunday dish, the family lunch, the excuse to gather around a table.

It’s not a restaurant dish. It’s a home dish. From a Romagnola home, to be precise. From those homes where the oven is still wood-fired, where pigs are raised outdoors, where wine comes from the hill down the dirt road.

And from those homes, when you open the door, the aroma already envelops you from outside. There’s no menu. There’s no wine list. There’s a set table, an uncorked bottle, and someone saying: Siediti. Magna.

How to recognize it at a glance

Recognizing Mora isn’t difficult if you know what to look for. It’s like recognizing a good wine from any other: once you learn, you never get it wrong.

The meat is darker than industrial white breeds. It’s not pale pink like what you find in the supermarket’s refrigerated counter. It’s an intense pink, almost red, promising flavor. The fat is yellower, richer, more alive — not stark white like industrial fat, but straw-colored, tending towards golden. To the touch, the meat is firm but elastic: when you press it with a finger, it springs back. The grain is finer, more compact.

To the nose — when you cook it — it’s an experience that immediately tells you: this isn’t normal pork.

If you see it at a butcher’s counter, ask. Get them to tell you about it. The breeder or butcher who sells Mora usually can’t wait to talk about it. Because for them it’s not just a product to sell: it’s a mission. It’s the result of years of work, sacrifices, sleepless nights when a sow gave birth and something went wrong.

It’s not business. It’s passion.

Where to find it in Rimini and its province

Not in the supermarket. We’ve said this already, but it’s worth repeating.

Mora is not found on the illuminated shelves of large retailers. There’s no contract with Conad or Coop. There’s no negotiation for the refrigerated counter. There are no flyers with discounted prices. Mora is something else entirely.

It’s bought from the producers of the Slow Food Presidium. In trusted butcher shops that know it, that know where it comes from, that can tell you the story of that animal. In the farms of Valmarecchia and the province of Rimini, where you can go in person, see the animals grazing, talk to those who raise them.

The coordinator of the Presidium is Matteo Zavoli (tel. 338 6784019). He is the right person to ask. He knows where Mora is located right now, who raises it, who processes it, who has fresh meat or cured meats available. You can call him directly. He’s an easy-going guy, one of those who answers the phone and patiently explains everything.

Many Presidium farms offer direct sales. Some organize on-site tastings, by reservation. If you’re on holiday in Rimini, take the car: in 20-30 minutes you’re out of the city, in the countryside of Valmarecchia or towards the hinterland of Santarcangelo. The breeder shows you the black pigs grazing among the trees. They look at you, impassive, with those almond eyes. Then he invites you into his house, seats you at a wooden table and brings out his cured meats.

It’s not an organized trip. It’s not an escape room. There’s no entrance ticket. It’s simply the Romagna you didn’t know. The real one.

The right wine for every bite

The Mora is fatty — in a good way — and calls for wines that can match it. Wines that cut, that clean, that prepare the mouth for the next bite.

Sausage and grilled meats: a Sangiovese Superiore. From the Rimini hills, Rimini DOC, or Predappio. The tannin cuts through the fat like a blade and cleanses the mouth for the next bite. Fresh, young, without timidity. A red wine you’ll happily drink even in summer, even at 30 degrees, even by the sea.

Culatello and cured meats: a more mature Sangiovese, which has spent a few years in barrels, or a structured and persistent Trebbiano. The complexity of the cured meat meets the structure of the wine. Be careful though: Mora culatello is more intense than normal culatello — the wine must hold its own without being overwhelmed.

Roasts and braised meats: a full-bodied red wine. An aged Sangiovese, which has had time to develop tertiary notes. But if you want to try something different, a sparkling Colli di Rimini Rosato with grilled sausage is a combination that few know and everyone should try at least once. The acidity of the sparkling rosé cuts through the fat like a hot knife, cleanses the palate, prepares the mouth for the next bite.

But the Romagnola rule is only one, and it’s undisputed: the wine you drank at grandma’s house. That’s always right.

A black pig weekend

Imagine.

You arrive at the Aqua Hotel. You park. Leave your suitcase in the room. Greet Cristian at reception. Take the car and in twenty minutes — twenty minutes, no more — you are out of Rimini, in the Valmarecchia countryside.

A farm. The breeder shows you the black pigs grazing. There they are: feet in the mud, snout to the ground, ears flapping to ward off flies. They seem to come from another time. They don’t know they are a breed saved from extinction. They are just being pigs.

Then the breeder seats you at a wooden table, outside, under a pergola. He brings out a cutting board. A knife. His cured meats. A bottle of Sangiovese. Bread. Piadina. New oil.

It’s not gastronomic tourism with a capital G. There’s no Michelin-starred chef in a white apron. There’s no tasting menu with parchment paper and English descriptions. There’s a wooden table, a cutting board, a knife. And a story that almost disappeared forever and instead is still here, alive, good, true.

That’s what ScopriRimini.it tries to tell every day: Rimini is not just umbrellas. It’s not just discotheques. It’s not just the stereo on until 4 in the morning. Rimini is also this: a hinterland that tastes of good things, people who work with passion asking for nothing in return, stories waiting to be discovered.

And eaten.

Frequently Asked Questions about Mora Romagnola

What is Mora Romagnola?

It is an indigenous pig breed from Romagna, with a dark, almost black coat. Characterized by fattier and tastier meat compared to industrial breeds, it is raised outdoors in a semi-wild state.

Where can I buy Mora Romagnola meat?

From the producers of the Slow Food Presidium in the provinces of Ravenna, Forlì-Cesena, and Rimini. In specialized butcher shops or directly from farms. It is not found in supermarkets.

Why was the Mora Romagnola almost extinct?

Because it grows slower than industrial breeds and has a higher fat percentage. With the advent of intensive farming, it was abandoned as it was considered unprofitable.

What does Mora Romagnola meat taste like?

It is tastier and more complex than industrial pork. The intramuscular fat makes it tender and flavorful. Cured meats have an intense, almost wild aroma, more reminiscent of wild boar than industrial pork.

Can I visit a Mora Romagnola farm?

Yes, many Slow Food Presidium farms organize visits and tastings by reservation. The coordinator Matteo Zavoli (338 6784019) provides information on visitable farms in the province of Rimini.

So next time you’re in Rimini and hear about Mora Romagnola, don’t think it’s just cured meat. It’s a story. It’s a territory. It’s a piece of Romagna that someone saved with their own hands, and that today is coming back to life on the plates of those who recognise quality.

If you want to know where to eat it, ask me. I have the map of producers at the reception. At Aqua Hotel. As always.

Mora Romagnola, the Black Pig of Romagna: Where to Find It and How to Recognize It

You won’t find it in the supermarket.

It’s not wrapped in plastic with a fake sticker. There’s no brightly lit refrigerated counter, there’s no price per kilo written with a marker on a white cardboard. The Mora Romagnola — la Mora, as breeders call it, with that familiarity reserved for important things — is another story.

A story that begins in the fields. In the woods. In the pastures of deep Romagna. The one you don’t see from the beach. The one that doesn’t appear in hotel brochures.

A black pig. With almond-shaped eyes and long tusks.

A pig that tastes of earth, of acorns, of slowness. That is not in a hurry to grow. That doesn’t know what an industrial shed is, a high-protein feed, the coming and going of trucks for slaughterhouses. It’s a pig that lives outside. Always. Even in winter. Even in the thick, crazy Romagna rain that lasts for days. It stays outside anyway.

It’s not just meat. It’s a breed. It’s character. It’s the flavor of a region that doesn’t surrender to intensive farming, industrial feed, soulless meat. It’s Romagna that doesn’t give up.

It wasn’t a product. It was an almost sealed fate. But someone decided not to let it die.

A pig that looks like a wild boar

It’s not a normal pig.

The Mora Romagnola is immediately recognizable. Dark, almost black fur — hence the name, mora like the dark color, like the blackberries that grow on hedges in autumn. Almond-shaped eyes, almost oriental cut. And the boars — the males — have long tusks that make them look more like wild boars than pigs.

Someone looks at them and says: “Are you sure?”.

It is closer to the wild boar, in fact. Genetically, it has remained wilder than the breeds selected in the last century. It has not been domesticated to become a block of meat on four legs, like the industrial breeds you see in documentaries on intensive farming. It has remained an animal. With all that means: character, instinct, strength.

And the strength of the Mora is not just in its character.

It’s in its meat. In the fat you don’t expect. In that flavor you won’t find in any other pig in the world.

Because the true secret of the Mora cannot be seen with the naked eye.

It’s under the skin.

It has a higher percentage of intramuscular fat than industrial breeds. We are not talking about lard — the white fat you see under the rind, separated, visible. We are talking about the fat within the meat, the one that makes it tender, that makes it melt in your mouth, that releases flavor as you chew. In technical jargon it is called marbling. In Romagnolo it is called “ad è bona” — and it’s good.

While modern breeds — Large White above all — have been selected to be lean and grow quickly, the Mora has remained ancient. Slow. Fatty. Flavorful. It grows slower than all the others. Much slower. It reaches slaughter weight when industrial breeds have already been slaughtered for months. It’s not good for the industry, which wants a quick cycle, a lean carcass, a standardized product.

All the same. All clean. All anonymous.

Paradoxically, that fat — which almost led it to extinction when the industry chose lean meat — is today considered its greatest asset. Because the fat of the Mora is not just taste: it is complexity, it is history, it is a journey in a bite. It is good fat. Fat that tastes of what the animal ate: acorns, grass, roots, chestnuts, in the silence of the Valmarecchia woods. Fat that speaks of the territory that generated it. Fat you won’t find on supermarket labels.

From 22,000 to 15: the rescue story

1949.

In Romagna there are about 22,000 Mora Romagnola pigs.

Twenty-two thousand.

There’s a black and white photo, somewhere, that shows them: a herd of black pigs in a field. It looks like a postcard from an era that won’t return. A rural world that was still breathing, that was still producing for itself, that still had its animals, its breeds, its flavors.

A few years ago, fewer than 15 were left.

Fifteen.

In all of Romagna. In all of Italy. In the whole world.

It’s not a typo. It’s not an exaggeration for effect. Fifteen animals. Fewer than the fingers of two hands. A breed that had existed for centuries — perhaps millennia — reduced to a handful of animals kept alive by the stubbornness of one man.

Mario Lazzari.

A breeder from Faenza. Alone. Without funding. Without spotlights. Without a press office to tell his story. He guarded the last specimens like a family secret. He kept them alive when no one believed in that breed anymore. When everyone said: “Give up, Mario, it’s not worth it. The future is industrial lean. The future is Large White. Forget about that old rubbish.”

He didn’t give up.

He continued to breed them. In silence. On his farm. With his feed. With his patience. For years.

Without Lazzari, today we would talk about the Mora Romagnola as we talk about the dodo — the Mauritian bird that disappeared in the 1600s — or the thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger that went extinct in the last century. Extinct species, only mentioned in books, in natural history museums, in BBC documentaries. A chapter in an encyclopedia of lost biodiversity. “Once upon a time there was a black pig in Romagna… beautiful, isn’t it? Too bad it no longer exists.”

Instead, the Mora is still here.

It has tough skin and dark fur. It still runs through the fields of Romagna. And if you’re lucky, you’ll also find it on your plate.

Then came the Slow Food Presidium. A project that brought together breeders and producers from the provinces of Ravenna, Forlì-Cesena and Rimini. They gathered the few remaining animals. They created an association. They established precise rules: semi-wild breeding, no sheds, no industrial feed, no routine antibiotics. Pastures, woods, clean air.

Today the Mora is back. It’s not easy to find — it’s not a mass product, it never will be — but it’s there. It exists again. And when you taste it, you understand why it was worth saving. Because it’s not just a piece of meat: it’s a piece of history.

From sausage to culatello: how to eat it

The Mora is versatile. But each preparation tells a different story. And each story has its moment, its season, its ritual.

Fresh sausage — the gateway

The simplest. The truest. The one that conquers everyone.

Take a Mora sausage. Put it on the grill. No need to marinate, no need to season — the meat speaks for itself. The intramuscular fat melts with the heat, keeps the meat tender, releases an aroma that is not like the pork you know. It is deeper, more animal, more honest. The scent spreads in the air, attracting neighbors, relatives, passers-by, anyone with a functioning nose.

You can hear it cooking: the sizzle of fat falling on the coals, the rising smoke. Anyone passing by a barbecue where Mora is cooking stops. Sniffs. Asks. Sooner or later everyone asks the same question: “What is that?”.

At the first bite — the skin crackles under your teeth. The filling melts like butter. The fat mixes with bread, with warm piadina just taken from the griddle. It’s not a sausage. It’s a business card. It’s the introduction of the Mora to those who have never tasted it.

And usually, after the first, a second comes. Then a third. Then someone asks where to buy it.

It always works like that.

Culatello — where the Mora becomes poetry

Here the Mora excels. Here you understand why it was worth saving it from intensive farming and oblivion.

Cured meats develop a complexity that industrial cured meats cannot even approach. It’s the fat’s fault — that fat that was once considered a defect, a problem, something to eliminate. In curing, fat becomes the vehicle of flavor. It carries the aromas, amplifies them, transforms them into something memorable.

A Mora culatello is not like Parma’s. The meat is darker. The fat is yellower, richer, more alive. The flavor is more decisive, almost wild. Slice it thin, put it on your tongue and let it melt. Close your eyes. You will feel the woods, the acorns, the winter in the hills.

It’s not a cured meat for beginners.

It’s a cured meat for those who have already eaten enough mediocre cured meats and finally want to know what real flavor is like.

The raw shoulder — less famous than culatello, but equally good — has a surprising sweetness. Less intense, more accessible. It melts on the tongue like a secret. You want a second piece before you’ve finished the first. And a third. And then you only stop because there’s none left.

Ribs, cracklings, roasts — the peasant tradition

In the Romagnola peasant tradition, nothing of the pig was thrown away.

Every part had a use. Every cut a recipe. Every recipe a name in dialect. The ribs — “i custli” — cook slowly, on low heat, for hours until the meat falls off the bone. The cracklings — “i zizoli” — the real ones, are crispy outside and soft inside. Not the ones from the supermarket, dry and sad like sawdust. Mora cracklings are another category: you bite them and feel the fat melting, the rind crackling, the flavor filling your mouth and never leaving.

A Mora chop is not like the ones you’ve eaten at the supermarket. It’s thicker. More marbled. With that streak of fat running through it from one side to the other, which in the pan melts and seasons the meat by itself, without needing to add anything. No need to marinate. No need to spice. Coarse salt, a drizzle of good oil, a hot pan. And off you go.

That’s how Mora is: the simpler you make it, the better it tastes.

Slow roasts — the triumph of flavor

There’s another way to eat Mora, which few know: slow roasting.

A cut of shoulder, or leg, baked at low temperature for hours. The intramuscular fat progressively melts, basting the meat from within, keeping it tender. The result is a texture you won’t forget: slightly crispy outside, so tender inside that you can cut it with a spoon.

Served with roasted potatoes — those that cook in the same pan, soaking up the dripping fat — it becomes the Sunday dish, the family lunch, the excuse to gather around a table.

It’s not a restaurant dish. It’s a home dish. From a Romagnola home, to be precise. From those homes where the oven is still wood-fired, where pigs are raised outdoors, where wine comes from the hill down the dirt road.

And from those homes, when you open the door, the aroma already envelops you from outside. There’s no menu. There’s no wine list. There’s a set table, an uncorked bottle, and someone saying: Siediti. Magna.

How to recognize it at a glance

Recognizing Mora isn’t difficult if you know what to look for. It’s like recognizing a good wine from any other: once you learn, you never get it wrong.

The meat is darker than industrial white breeds. It’s not pale pink like what you find in the supermarket’s refrigerated counter. It’s an intense pink, almost red, promising flavor. The fat is yellower, richer, more alive — not stark white like industrial fat, but straw-colored, tending towards golden. To the touch, the meat is firm but elastic: when you press it with a finger, it springs back. The grain is finer, more compact.

To the nose — when you cook it — it’s an experience that immediately tells you: this isn’t normal pork.

If you see it at a butcher’s counter, ask. Get them to tell you about it. The breeder or butcher who sells Mora usually can’t wait to talk about it. Because for them it’s not just a product to sell: it’s a mission. It’s the result of years of work, sacrifices, sleepless nights when a sow gave birth and something went wrong.

It’s not business. It’s passion.

Where to find it in Rimini and its province

Not in the supermarket. We’ve said this already, but it’s worth repeating.

Mora is not found on the illuminated shelves of large retailers. There’s no contract with Conad or Coop. There’s no negotiation for the refrigerated counter. There are no flyers with discounted prices. Mora is something else entirely.

It’s bought from the producers of the Slow Food Presidium. In trusted butcher shops that know it, that know where it comes from, that can tell you the story of that animal. In the farms of Valmarecchia and the province of Rimini, where you can go in person, see the animals grazing, talk to those who raise them.

The coordinator of the Presidium is Matteo Zavoli (tel. 338 6784019). He is the right person to ask. He knows where Mora is located right now, who raises it, who processes it, who has fresh meat or cured meats available. You can call him directly. He’s an easy-going guy, one of those who answers the phone and patiently explains everything.

Many Presidium farms offer direct sales. Some organize on-site tastings, by reservation. If you’re on holiday in Rimini, take the car: in 20-30 minutes you’re out of the city, in the countryside of Valmarecchia or towards the hinterland of Santarcangelo. The breeder shows you the black pigs grazing among the trees. They look at you, impassive, with those almond eyes. Then he invites you into his house, seats you at a wooden table and brings out his cured meats.

It’s not an organized trip. It’s not an escape room. There’s no entrance ticket. It’s simply the Romagna you didn’t know. The real one.

The right wine for every bite

The Mora is fatty — in a good way — and calls for wines that can match it. Wines that cut, that clean, that prepare the mouth for the next bite.

Sausage and grilled meats: a Sangiovese Superiore. From the Rimini hills, Rimini DOC, or Predappio. The tannin cuts through the fat like a blade and cleanses the mouth for the next bite. Fresh, young, without timidity. A red wine you’ll happily drink even in summer, even at 30 degrees, even by the sea.

Culatello and cured meats: a more mature Sangiovese, which has spent a few years in barrels, or a structured and persistent Trebbiano. The complexity of the cured meat meets the structure of the wine. Be careful though: Mora culatello is more intense than normal culatello — the wine must hold its own without being overwhelmed.

Roasts and braised meats: a full-bodied red wine. An aged Sangiovese, which has had time to develop tertiary notes. But if you want to try something different, a sparkling Colli di Rimini Rosato with grilled sausage is a combination that few know and everyone should try at least once. The acidity of the sparkling rosé cuts through the fat like a hot knife, cleanses the palate, prepares the mouth for the next bite.

But the Romagnola rule is only one, and it’s undisputed: the wine you drank at grandma’s house. That’s always right.

A black pig weekend

Imagine.

You arrive at the Aqua Hotel. You park. Leave your suitcase in the room. Greet Cristian at reception. Take the car and in twenty minutes — twenty minutes, no more — you are out of Rimini, in the Valmarecchia countryside.

A farm. The breeder shows you the black pigs grazing. There they are: feet in the mud, snout to the ground, ears flapping to ward off flies. They seem to come from another time. They don’t know they are a breed saved from extinction. They are just being pigs.

Then the breeder seats you at a wooden table, outside, under a pergola. He brings out a cutting board. A knife. His cured meats. A bottle of Sangiovese. Bread. Piadina. New oil.

It’s not gastronomic tourism with a capital G. There’s no Michelin-starred chef in a white apron. There’s no tasting menu with parchment paper and English descriptions. There’s a wooden table, a cutting board, a knife. And a story that almost disappeared forever and instead is still here, alive, good, true.

That’s what ScopriRimini.it tries to tell every day: Rimini is not just umbrellas. It’s not just discotheques. It’s not just the stereo on until 4 in the morning. Rimini is also this: a hinterland that tastes of good things, people who work with passion asking for nothing in return, stories waiting to be discovered.

And eaten.

Frequently Asked Questions about Mora Romagnola

What is Mora Romagnola?

It is an indigenous pig breed from Romagna, with a dark, almost black coat. Characterized by fattier and tastier meat compared to industrial breeds, it is raised outdoors in a semi-wild state.

Where can I buy Mora Romagnola meat?

From the producers of the Slow Food Presidium in the provinces of Ravenna, Forlì-Cesena, and Rimini. In specialized butcher shops or directly from farms. It is not found in supermarkets.

Why was the Mora Romagnola almost extinct?

Because it grows slower than industrial breeds and has a higher fat percentage. With the advent of intensive farming, it was abandoned as it was considered unprofitable.

What does Mora Romagnola meat taste like?

It is tastier and more complex than industrial pork. The intramuscular fat makes it tender and flavorful. Cured meats have an intense, almost wild aroma, more reminiscent of wild boar than industrial pork.

Can I visit a Mora Romagnola farm?

Yes, many Slow Food Presidium farms organize visits and tastings by reservation. The coordinator Matteo Zavoli (338 6784019) provides information on visitable farms in the province of Rimini.

So next time you’re in Rimini and hear about Mora Romagnola, don’t think it’s just cured meat. It’s a story. It’s a territory. It’s a piece of Romagna that someone saved with their own hands, and that today is coming back to life on the plates of those who recognise quality.

If you want to know where to eat it, ask me. I have the map of producers at the reception. At Aqua Hotel. As always.