Otea takes her place at the table. She finds her way by feel. And she calls us back. 

Aperitivi and fritto misto are spread before us. Citrus zest. Salt crystal. Sea fruit. This is the fat, full promise of the buona sera. The hour of miele. The satisfying clasp of a cigarette case clicking open and shut.

We don’t know how long she’ll linger. Being here beside her feels like following the sillage of a scent. The trace of a family line that flickers. The faint pink lipstick on a cocktail coupe. The echo of someone’s laughter who was just here, then there, then gone. 

The lines she leaves flower and fan out in all directions. These flickers are a little bit feral and they are free-wheeling good fun. She is forever our fiammifiera. The secret spark that sends us. 

She is just ahead. And we’ll follow her anywhere. 

Our relics are the real residue of remembrance. Elsewhere, you might call them vintage. A designed date and place. An acquired aesthetic. A lived-in “look” to take on.

But here at Otea, these relics are the embodied echo of your very own antiquity. The last drops of other lives lived and tasted all the way down that now offer themselves up to you on their altar, still beating in beauty. And the first drops of lives longed for and never lived, but tasted nonetheless.

Reach for these remembrances. Give them their place in your light that remains. Conjure them all the way back to this side of life while you’re both still here.

We are who we are because of the people we've met, and because of the people we've never met.