From the Editor, Leigh O’Connor.
Golden Hour arrives quietly like a soft hush over the day, turning ordinary tables into tiny theatres of light. The sun drops low and everything warms - glassware glows amber, wine looks deeper, beer crowns itself with a foamy halo.
Shadows lengthen lazily across linen and the air cools just enough to make that first sip feel like relief. Cheeks flush, laughter loosens and conversations stretch wide, unhurried by the clock.
Plates land with colours that seem newly painted: char on a steak shines coppery, olive oil flashes gold, a sprig of herbs looks almost luminous. You taste with your eyes first, then your whole body follows. Somewhere between day and night, appetite becomes a kind of ceremony - friends leaning in, strangers smiling easier, the city outside slowing to a glow.
Golden Hour doesn’t just light the meal; it sweetens the moment, making every bite and toast feel like a small, shared sunset.
Eating with light in mind is less a trend than a quiet remembering - that flavour is never only in the food and satisfaction is never only in the mouth.
In the late-day sun, the world tilts toward warmth. The light comes low and honeyed, sliding across plates and catching on the skin of fruit, the sheen of olive oil, the tiny salt crystals flecking roast vegetables. It makes food look more generous than it is and somehow, that generosity transfers.
Dinner at nine used to sound indulgent, even faintly rebellious in Australia - like something reserved for holidays, jet lag, or a night that got away from you. We’re the country of early birds and brighter-than-bright mornings, of cafés that hum from dawn and kitchens that wind down before the news.
Yet somewhere in the last few years, the idea of a late meal has shifted. Not just tolerated, but desired. Dinner at nine is no longer a scheduling accident. It’s becoming a choice. A luxury. A quiet statement that time is yours again.
Spritz hour has a way of turning the clock into something softer. Not quite afternoon, not yet evening - just that golden hinge where you’re done with the day but not ready for dinner, when the light slants low and everything feels possible.
A drink appears - bubbly, bitter, bright - and suddenly you’re not hungry exactly, but you want something. Something salty. Something sharp. Something that makes the first sip taste like a tiny holiday.
Enter the perfect Spritz hour snacks. Not a meal. Not even close. These are the nibbles you don’t plan, yet somehow they shape the whole night. The kind of things that live in little bowls and on small plates, that you eat standing up with one hip leaned against the kitchen counter, laughing at nothing, teasing the appetite awake.
We show you how to host a Summer gathering without the performance, discover the Coastal Food Code and hot to serve shellfish without fuss…
You’re welcome!
