A net that chases nothing

The tonnarella goes down in spring and comes up at the end of summer. It sits still close to shore and waits. It does not hunt for fish — it waits for fish to come past.

• 1961

  My grandfather fished and my grandmother cooked whatever was still unsold on the quay at the end of the morning. The restaurant grew out of that, and the order of operations has never changed: look at what there is, then decide what to make.

• The haul

  The net is lifted early. What comes up is weighed on the quay before seven, and the evening’s menu exists from that moment and not before.

• The libeccio

  Three days of southwesterly wind and the boat stays tied up. That is not a mishap, it is the arrangement: some weeks no tuna appears and the card gets shorter. We would rather write that down than hide it.

• Kilos

  Fourteen kilos of bonito is not an infinite quantity. When it goes, the dishes built on it go quiet too, halfway through service if that is when it happens. It is the only honest way to make the written menu and the plate agree.