We cook inside the quiet of stone
Reale keeps an old monastery in the Abruzzo mountains, where light moves slowly and the plate is allowed to rest.
Cooking stripped to its honest weight, served in a silence you can almost hold.
We changed the house as little as it would let us.
The walls are thick, the windows are narrow, and the light arrives one hour at a time. We cook the produce of these high pastures with a patient hand, adding little so that a single ingredient can be heard in a quiet room.
Reale lives in a monastery raised above a river valley, where the walls are thick, the windows are narrow, and the light arrives one hour at a time. We cook the produce of these high pastures with a patient and unhurried hand. Little is added and much is left alone, so that a single ingredient can be heard in a quiet room.
A walk along the cloister, where the day is measured in light and shade.
The house keeps its old hours. We follow them, one office at a time.
The fire
One small hearth is lit in the dark and kept all day. The first bread goes in while the valley is still asleep.
The gather
Herbs from the walls, roots from the cold garden, whatever the high pasture has given since yesterday.
The quiet
The kitchen rests with the building. We write the evening on a single sheet and change little of it.
The table
One seating in the old refectory. The room fills slowly and is given the whole of our attention.
Stone, light, and the long quiet
Nothing here moves quickly. The light crosses the floor through the afternoon, the cellar keeps its cool, and the kitchen waits until the season is honestly ready to be served.
A place is held, when you are ready to come up the valley.