Steps down into the souterrain — white tables, a shelf of wine, soft light.
Minimal in tone, warm in effect. The kitchen looks toward Apulia without turning it into a postcard: crisp octopus on potato-lemon cream as a short opening note, fava bean puree with bitter dandelion as its counterpoint. What else hits the table depends on the week — the menu rotates, the standard doesn't. Fresh focaccia cools on the counter, open bottles beside it, all picked by the owner himself. No ten-row antipasti parade, no plating for the camera — tight menu and steady hand. Wines chosen to match the course, not the label.
