By four in the afternoon the boats are back, the catch is sorted, and someone is standing at the board with a piece of chalk trying to make sense of whatever February decided to send in from the water. This is the best part of the job.
We run nine rooms above the harbor. The dining room seats twenty-two on a good night, maybe sixteen if people are wearing the big coats, which in February they always are. There is no printed menu. There is the board, there is what came off the boats, and there is about forty minutes to figure out what dinner looks like before the first guest wanders down from their room asking what smells so good.
What February actually brings
People assume winter fishing means slim pickings. It doesn't, at least not here. February on this stretch of coast tends to be cold-water fish at their absolute best — leaner, firmer, more themselves. This past February we saw a lot of black sea bass early in the month, a good run of monkfish through the middle two weeks, and then a late surge of razor clams right at the end that had us scrambling in the best possible way.
The scallop boats were also doing well. Dayboat scallops in February carry a sweetness that is almost unfair — slightly briny, no wateriness, they don't need much. We probably did scallops eight times in twenty-eight days and apologized for none of it.
Writing the menu at four o'clock
The four o'clock menu write is a negotiation between what arrived, what's in the larder from the week's deliveries, and what the kitchen can actually execute before seven. You learn quickly that ambition is the enemy of service. A dish that looks beautiful in your head at 4:05 can completely unravel by 7:30 if you haven't thought through the steps.
Our February format settled into something like: one crudo or small cold thing, one soup, two mains, one composed vegetable dish that could work as a starter or a side, and a pudding. Five lines on the board. Enough to feel like a menu, short enough that we could cook everything well.
A five-line menu forces you to make decisions you'd otherwise defer. When there's no room for a sixth dish, you stop hedging and commit — and the food is almost always better for it.
The dishes that stuck
A few things we wrote on that board this February that we're still thinking about:
- Black sea bass crudo with thinly shaved fennel, blood orange, and a small spoon of trout roe. The bass was so fresh it was almost translucent. We charged eighteen dollars and felt slightly guilty.
- Monkfish with brown butter, capers, and celeriac mash. Monkfish forgives a four-o'clock commitment because it holds temperature and doesn't overcook at the speed of other fish. We leaned on it gratefully.
- Razor clam chowder with smoked potato and chives. We only had the clams for three nights. Guests who hit those nights feel, we suspect, quietly smug about the timing.
- Seared scallops with white bean purée and crispy guanciale. The combination is not new. It doesn't need to be. It works because every component does exactly what it's supposed to.
What the guests don't see
The romantic version of this is a chef standing at the harbor, fish in hand, inspiration striking like lightning. The reality involves a lot of text messages from the dock, a group chat called "what did they pull" that pings at odd hours, and at least one afternoon this month when we didn't know what was coming until 3:45 and had to write the board in about twelve minutes flat.
That night was a whole roasted black bass with herbs from the windowsill pot, roasted root vegetables, and a simple green salad. Guests said it was one of the best things they'd eaten. The twelve-minute menu is not always the worst menu.
Constraints are just decisions that have already been made for you. February makes a lot of decisions, and most of them turn out fine.
Why we love the cold months
Summer here is beautiful and relentless. The dining room is full, the rooms are full, the kitchen is loud, and the menu has to work for a wider range of people with a wider range of expectations. February is quieter — the guests who come in February chose to come in February. They want the gray water and the wind and the smaller crowd and the food that tastes like the place they're actually in. They are, almost without exception, exactly the guests you want to cook for.
The board goes up at half five. Someone photographs it — we post it, guests share it, a few people book a room based purely on seeing what's on offer that week. The chalk comes off at the end of the night, and by four the next afternoon we start again. February had twenty-eight rounds of this. We'd take twenty-eight more.
If you want to be there for a four o'clock board — or just a dinner that came off the water the same day — March still has a few rooms open. The sea bass aren't going anywhere yet.
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