A single nightly menu, written each morning around what the farms pulled from the ground that day. We let the harvest set the pace. The full card is chalked on the board by the pass before service. What follows is a taste of what is leaving the kitchen this week.
No distributors, no cold-storage detours. We drive the loop ourselves every morning, the soil is still on the crates when they reach the kitchen door. If a farm has a hard week, the menu bends with it. That is the deal we made.
Cooked whole over oak embers, smoked stracciatella, basil oil, torn sourdough crisped in the drippings.
This morning's leaves, fennel charred in the coals, toasted seeds, lemon picked from the greenhouse pot.
Line-caught at the harbor before service, slow polenta from a single mill, brown-butter apricot.
Apricots blistered over the dying coals, honey from the hives at Hollow Brook, a torn leaf of basil from the pot by the door.
Warm cake from the single mill we drive to, dusted in fennel pollen, served with cream barely set.
Six courses, written this morning around the day's harvest and read aloud at the table. Per person. We let the farms decide the rest.
We know the name of every grower on the plate. Here is the loop, set down in full.
Seatings are intimate and the menu is finite. Book ahead, then arrive hungry and unhurried.