Ida cooked. People kept showing up.

This place started as Sunday dinners that outgrew the apartment. Friends brought friends, somebody always did the dishes, and eventually the landlord downstairs offered us the empty storefront half as a joke. We took it seriously.

The rules from those dinners survived the move. The menu is short because Ida would rather do nine things well than thirty things fine. The kitchen is open because watching your dinner get made is half the fun. And nobody gets rushed out of their chair, because the second hour of a good dinner is the point of it.

"If a dish wouldn't make it to the Sunday table, it doesn't make it to the menu."

We buy from people we can call by first name: the farm two counties over, the fish guy who texts photos at 5am, the mill that grinds our polenta. When the menu changes, that's why.

Come on a Wednesday if you want it quiet, Friday if you want the room loud and happy. Either way, somebody's expecting you.