Written in the morning, eaten at night

A loaf off the fire five minutes ago, whipped butter with smoked salt, and olive oil Marisol still gets from her mother.

Long-fermented dough, fresh za'atar, soft goat's cheese from a farm upstate.

Goes into the coals in its skin and comes out forty minutes later. Raw tahini, pomegranate, pine nut oil.

Preserved lemon, toasted almonds, a great deal of parsley.

Sliced thin, green olive oil, lemon, chilli and sea salt.

Caramelised onion, quince purée, yeasted pita to mop it up.

Smoked feta, walnuts, date honey.

Whatever came off the truck this morning. Root vegetables, preserved lemon butter. Ask the waiter what came in.

Slow-roasted over oak, freekeh, sheep's yoghurt, chopped mint.

Twelve ounces, smoked salt, hot chimichurri.

Green tahini, date honey, toasted almonds. Black outside, white inside.

Buried in the embers for an hour. Sour cream, dill, spring onion.

Leaves from a farm up the Hudson Valley.

Pickled here, sharp and crisp.

Dark chocolate ganache, edible wood ash, cream ice cream. Sounds odd, goes first.

The one Marisol made every day for four years in San Sebastián. Nothing about it has been improved since.