I took my first sip of amaro — the bittersweet Italian liqueur — just after dinner on a balmy late-September night in the Piazza dei Madonna del Monti in Rome. It was close to midnight, but my wife and I had just finished dinner with our Chicago-born host and her Roman boyfriend, Lodo.
Lodo suggested a post-meal digestivo procured from a shoebox-size bar around the corner, which served the sweet, syrupy alcohol in a flimsy plastic container resembling a medicine cup — a fitting receptacle for the restorative elixir.
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