Two of us, telling one story.

We cook for two people first, the brother across the pass and the guest at the table. Every dish has to mean something to both of us before it leaves the kitchen, which is why the menu reads like a memory rather than a list.

We are twins, and for as long as we can remember we have cooked the same food from opposite ends of a kitchen. We grew up in a flat where Sunday smelled of caraway and slow veal, and where our grandmother let us stir things we were far too small to reach. Years later we followed the heat to Bangkok, found an old residential villa with shutters and a courtyard, and turned its rooms into one long table. The cooking here is the Germany we carry between us, told plate by plate to a city that became home.