the table
One table. One menu. No hurry.
The kitchen cooks what the island grew and the boats brought in. You eat when the light says it is time.
dinner
One long table, one daily menu.
Dinner is at eight, outside when the evening allows. Fish from the morning boats, vegetables from the island, and no decisions to make except the wine.
- set menu, changes daily
- together or apart — both are right
- tell us everything you cannot eat
the terrace
Long dinners, slow sunsets.
The west terrace holds the last light longer than anywhere on the bay. Dinner starts in daylight and ends under the lamp, and nobody notices the hours between.
- aperitivo at seven
- blankets after midnight
- the lamp stays lit until the last glass
mornings
Breakfast until noon, on purpose.
Whatever the market had at six: figs, bread still warm, island honey, eggs how you like them. The coffee is strong and the table never hurries.
- the fig jam is a house secret
- coffee from the pot, always on
- late risers are our people
The cellar is open. Write down what you take.
Island wines, a shelf of better olive oil than you have at home, and a ledger with a pencil on a string. The honesty bar has survived nine summers; we see no reason it will not survive yours.
plan a long dinner