The Table

The Table is the oldest pillar. Food has always been the excuse.

We convene in places that do not announce themselves — a private cellar that has not hosted a dinner in eleven years, a kitchen behind a kitchen, a space that belongs to someone who agreed, once, to share it.

The chef cooks off-menu. The winemaker pours things you have probably not had. The conversation is not arranged. There are sixteen seats, which is the right number: large enough to keep the evening alive, small enough to reach everyone across the table.

The address arrives forty-eight hours before. Until then: nothing to do, nothing to bring.