The velvety, succulent meat of Parma’s pigs was famous even before Hannibal stopped off here on his way down from the Alps. Five breeds are crossed to produce an animal that is, as the farmers say, ben fatto (well made), with plenty of dense muscle under a thick layer of fat.

The pigs are fed only on whey left over from making parmigiano cheese, mixed with a little grain, and are at least nine months old when slaughtered.

Most of the best pork from this region, of course, is destined to be made into prosciutto, the production of which is tightly regulated.

But a tiny amount — so tiny that, unlike prosciutto, it is almost certainly never going to reach the export market — is made into something even more special: culatello.

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Culatello translates literally as “tiny arse”, a typically earthy Emilian epithet, although perhaps not one that sums up this most precious of artisanal delicacies. It is made only from the animal’s right leg, which it curls under itself as it sits; the left leg, which is used for standing, builds up more muscle and is thus not as tender.

The inner part of the rump is marinated in salt and spices, then sown inside a pig’s bladder and tied tightly with string to expel the air. Half spoil before they reach maturity, but those that survive are sweetly pungent, yet so creamy the meat can be spread with a knife.

During their long curing, the hams will be cosseted like babies — in fact, as the local saying goes, they don’t so much cure the meat as give it to a wet nurse. Salting alternates with il riposo, the rest, during which the hams are brought down from airy attics, open to the mists that find their way up from the River Po, to the even greater humidity of the farmhouse cellars.

Some farmers even hang their hams outside when the weather is mild and take them in again at night, like washing. Only after 400 days have passed is the culatello pierced with an implement made from a horse’s femur so the meat can be checked. It should give off a very faint whiff of mould, like the cork of a well-matured wine.

Culatello almost disappeared when EU sanitary inspectors started to question whether exposing raw meat to river mists and mould without refrigeration was a good idea. Thank goodness it didn’t.

Where to eat it: you are unlikely to see culatello outside the heartlands of Emilia-Romagna, such as Parma and Bologna. The owner of Osteria Ardenga (anticardenga.it), just north of Parma, is so passionate about it that he has turned his restaurant into a salumeria, where he also sells strolghino, a salami made from the offcuts.

You could also try traditional restaurants, such as the Ristorante Parizzi in Parma (Via della Repubblica 71; 00 39 052 128 5952).

What to drink: the wines of Emilia-Romagna are often described as “idiosyncratic” or even “eccentric”. That said, dry Lambrusco is unlikely to be anything like the sweet, red, fizzy stuff you have sampled abroad, and locals claim the slight frothiness helps cut the richness of their meat.

Personally, I would partner culatello with one of the heavily perfumed, almost truffle-scented red wines of northern Italy, such as Barbaresco.

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