So this was part of dinner on Sunday when I didn't have the wherewithal to go out. I asked the lovely butcher to get a bottle of Amaro Montenegro down off the top shelf for me, and then stumbled through something like, "I want something. But I don't know what it is." He said, "You don't know what it's called?" I shook my head no. "I don't know what I want."
Between the two of us, I would up with Speck (smoked Prosicutto), Coppa di testa (head cheese, not a clear favourite), and oh-my-god-it's-always-good-but-not-like this Porchetta.
The wine was a gift from my landlord here.
Lunch on Sunday was a local haunt. The average age of patrons was about 70. That was when I knew I picked the right neighbourhood. (No pics of the cottontops, sorry. Just the housemade ravioli with spinach and ricotta and the gorgeous grilled chicory.)
Finally, not that anyone is worried about my welfare in the apartment, but if you were, take a look at that door. It is even more solid than it looks.
5 comments:
I'll breathe easier with you behind THAT door! Seems like your having some food adventures. How' the Italin going?
XOXO
I was worried, actually, because that's what I do. And now I am reassured.
Oh, and that food is making my mouth water. Even fresh out of a gastro.
gousse xoxoxoxox
Oh yeah, baby, that's the stuff.
1. THE butcher? 2. too bad about the cottontop pics, but there's no accounting for taste/priorities. 3. hope mario has an internet connection, wherever he is. xo
as aside, number 4 is: hi gousse!
So is the pasta living up to your expectations? Gina
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