“What’s that smell?” I remember asking my friend as we cycled along the Tanaro river towards Alba. The air was dense with a sticky, sweet, toasted aroma—pleasant at first, then vaguely nauseating. “Ah,” he said with a grimace. “It’s the smell of that thing your parents didn’t want you to eat when you were a child. And also, the smell of what made this place what it is, one hazelnut at a time.”

I realized we were approaching the Ferrero plant. Nutella must have been in the pipeline—a secret recipe still shrouded in mystery and palm oil. At that moment, a scene from the endless tug-of-war with my mother over buying a jar crossed my mind. “I’ll buy you a real crema nocciola sometime,” she’d say.