Cantina di Manuela

When it comes to Poetry of the Menu, the Italians have an upper hand; theirs is the kind of food you want to read aloud.  Thankfully, I was visiting Italy with a Real Italian, who could not only read the food with an authentic accent, but could also translate.  You can get the gist and some central ingredients with a scan, but it was nice to know what I was in for with a thorough translation.  

And though it was lovely to hear the functional translations and be able to order according to reality rather than assumptions based on educated guesses (pomodoro, funghi: familiar!), here is a flowery description of what we ate, in my English translation:

A little pond of dark green olive oil for dipping, speckled with coarse salt.

Two plates, one with cubes of assorted cheeses and one with handkerchiefs of pink charcuterie; each with its small bowl of accompaniments: honey and pickled artichoke, respectively.  The charcuterie included precious strips of white lardon streaked with pink ham, on which I went to town.

A pile of lovely noodles sprinkled with porcini mushrooms.

A hockey puck of raw beef, covered in sectioned grape tomatoes.