We are an industry of two; we are cook, winergrower,  sommelier, factotum, writer, picturetaker, dishwasher, floor scrubber, reservationist, cellar rat, pruner, beekeeper, rosarian.  We are farmers. When you come to dine with us, you come to dine with us.  One of us is in the kitchen, one of us is on the floor.  There is no fleet of line cooks or big support staff.  The {osteria} has never been a restaurant following typical restaurant-ish rules.  It was born of an experience, a memory, hunger, and out of love.   

On a small s-curve of a town that sits high above a road of wine there is an outpost, a collection of ochre~washed houses and lichen~covered stone buildings, nestled against groves of olive trees gone wild, blooming rosemary, and the remains of an abandoned village.   The town is a place grown up from the foundations of a Roman bridge like a tenacious and wild grape vine.  It is also the home of a a particular trattoria, a classic countryside restaurant, a place that no longer exists, except in the remnants of our own nostalgia, a place built of its own mythology, a Roman history, and our personal past.  The place where we found truth and purity, where we understood that all else is suspended when you sit down at the table.

This trattoria, really just a hidden dining room with no name to herald its existence, began as a pizzeria over fifty years ago and grew to include a few fresh pasta dishes and one or two roasted meats, a salad of crisp and bitter greens, glasses of wine and beer.  In the bar, the men smoked and played cards and the boys wrestled with the pinball machine or foosball table.  Through a door was a social room for parties and the ballo al liscio, a ballroom where dancing took place every other Saturday night to the sounds of a local jazz trio.

That little dining room has shaped all that we have done over the last twenty years here at the {osteria}, guiding every shift and change in our own small dining room and tiny kitchen.  And we too are in the middle of a village, but nestled against the soft shoulders of green hills thick with maple, pine, hemlock, and wild apple trees.  Our dining room has not much of a sign, and while there is no ballroom dancing on Saturday nights, there is a different kind of dance, that of the conviviality of the guests sharing in dishes from our stove and oven matched with wines that speak of a sense of place and to the ingredients that we grow and that inspire us.    

Truth comes in many forms.  For us it came and continues to come in that purity of ingredients on a plate and in a glass where chemistry, math, heart, and imagination play out simply at a table shared.  Our mission is to create this table and to do so we find ourselves constantly morphing, this little osteria shifting to fit us and how we have grown.   This is our home.