Rumors come.  And rumors go.  We all are subject to them at some point or another.  Through our twenty years at {osteria} pane e salute~ it was twenty years in November!~
we've had some doozies.  Our best~loved speculations
 are that I seem to be perennially pregnant, that Caleb is still twenty, and my most favorite of all is that we are heirs to a great fortune.  
Would that that were true. 

There have always been the rumors that we are closed, or closing. It seems like almost every season this one circulates when we leave the restaurant to turn our attention to pruning, planting, or harvesting.  We also seem to still be re~opening,
 probably much to the chagrin of the originating storytellers, turning up like a bad penny every other season as for the past few years we've been working the summer and winter angle, closing our doors during spring and fall.

But life does change, shifts take place, the earth moves under our feet.  In these two decades of life at pane e salute, we have gone from village bakery and cafe, to lunch eatery, to osteria.  We've gone from early days of trying to source as locally as possible per the inspiration of our one-time life in Italy to the growing of our own prime ingredients.  We've gone from the well-honed dream of owning a little village restaurant to the experiment of growing wine on our own land.  In all these scenarios, one thing has stayed constant, the kitchen and the dishes which feed us and you, feed our spirit,
and the table where we share it all.

And what an amazing twenty years it's been full of adventure, good friends,  hard work, lots of love and tales to tell.  Stories to fill an era.  Or even two.

We have always been attracted to new adventures and new stories, and pane e salute's identity has evolved so many times since 1996.  Evolution, or revolution, comes around again.  Our winter season will run through mid~April, and then we will open our hands and let go of this sweet little space in Woodstock that has served us so well and hope that another young chef, or sommelier, or baker will be smitten with these spring green walls and tiny kitchen and make it their new home.

We don't think of this as a closing.  More of a moving, a transitioning.  The {osteria} will make way for the tavernetta and we will be able to consolidate all our farming, cooking, and winery efforts in one place, up at the homefarm, that seductive spot of land on the edge of a forest.  Hart, our official tasting room aka tavernetta or bar a vin will be open several times a month, either as a kind of wine bar or the stage set for a supper club.  We won't be open to the public like the {osteria} has been, but rather we will continue to run it privately through our email list like we have for the pop~ ups this last year. 

Many of you won't be surprised by these changes.  We see them ourselves as organic and feel we have been slowly and naturally moving toward this outcome for some time now.  We encourage you to come see us at the {osteria} before mid~April if you'd like to get one more visit in here, and we also hope you will transition with us, if you already haven't, and come see us up at the homefarm.  While changes like this are always bittersweet, we plan on doing plenty of celebrating, toasting to the {osteria} as we have known and loved it, and to the new tavernetta which will herald a new narrative.


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.