A note on the bread

I have a rule, which I picked up from an old chef in Piedmont, which is that a restaurant tells you what it cares about with the bread. Not the wine, not the room, not the sign on the door. The bread.

If it arrives lukewarm in a basket with a wet napkin over the top, the kitchen has bigger problems. If it is sliced and stacked, someone is moving fast and not paying attention. If it comes with a foil-wrapped pat of cold butter, you are about to eat a meal that was thought about by an accountant.

Our bread is a country loaf. Sourdough, slow ferment, scored once down the middle, baked at three in the afternoon so it is still warm when service starts. We slice it to order. The butter is cultured and at room temperature, in a small ceramic dish, next to a smaller dish of olive oil and Sicilian sea salt. There is no charge. We do not consider it a freebie.

If we run out before the kitchen closes, which has happened, we send a friend down the block to a bakery I trust and we serve theirs and we tell you, because you should know. The point of the rule is honesty. A restaurant that tells you when its bread is borrowed is a restaurant that is going to be honest about everything else.

Eat the bread. Eat all of it. It is on the table for a reason.