One table. One sommelier. Two cuts cooked two ways, paired with two bottles two slates apart. Eight to sixteen seats — small enough to talk, large enough to be a room.
No agenda. No presentations. Just dinner, the long way.
Different cuts, prepared two different ways. Plated as two-bite tastings with sides on the same plate — built to compare, not to stuff. Refined portions. The kind of bites you remember in detail.
Two bottles. Two slates apart. Walked through plate by plate by a sommelier who knows precisely why each pour meets each cut — and tells you, without making it a lecture.
Small enough that the table actually has a conversation. Large enough that there's a table. Curated by invitation — the seats fill in the order they're confirmed.
A private room built for exactly this — low light, deep wood, the kind of stillness you forget cities can have. An evening that takes its time because the room insists on it.
A short reply is all we need — in or out.
Seats are held in the order they're confirmed.
