by Mike Hale
When Americans dream about Italian food, they invariably flash on pots of simmering marinara, long strands of dried spaghetti, pepperoni pizza and bottles of cheap Chianti wrapped in wicker. (They call that straw bottle a fiasco — a fitting name when you consider our clichéd notions about real Italian food.)
My dream places me inside a brick-walled wine cellar, or cantinetta, fashioned into an upscale trattoria, where I'm happily sipping Barolo from a globed glass. Torpedoes of cured meat hang from the ceiling in a glass-enclosed aging room, table vases bloom with elegant breadstick stems and we snack on warmed, fat Sicilian olives.
Source: http://www.montereyherald.com/
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