VERRE

Verre holds twelve seats around a single kitchen. There is no menu to choose from, no substitutions, no second sitting. Each evening the brigade cooks once, for everyone, and the meal moves like a piece of chamber music — nine movements, tuned to what the market allowed that morning.

We buy from eleven growers, one boat, and a man who only sells butter. The cellar leans Burgundian; the bread is baked at four in the afternoon so it is still warm at eight. What we cannot make honest, we leave out. This has kept the menu short for nine years.