The long lunch is back and not in a timid, ‘we’ll see how we go’ kind of way. This is a full-bodied return: sun on shoulders, a table that keeps growing and that delicious illusion that time has politely stepped aside.
It’s alfresco and abundant again - the kind of afternoon that starts with a casual "let’s do lunch” and ends when the last candle gutters out and someone is still telling a story with a peach pit in their hand.
There’s something about eating outdoors that loosens the belt and the spirit at the same time. Maybe it’s the breeze slipping through linen shirts, or the way conversation seems to travel further without a ceiling to catch it. You’re not just having lunch; you’re inhabiting a tiny season of your own making. The soundtrack is clinking glass, lazy laughter, a dog’s hopeful sigh under the table and the faint crackle of something gorgeous hitting the grill.
This is slow food territory. The pot of beans that took all morning and didn’t apologise for it. The bread you tear with your hands because someone decided knives were too formal for joy. Garden-fresh produce still warm from the sun, as if the tomatoes are carrying a bit of afternoon in their skins. A bowl of cucumbers so cold and snappy they practically hum. Herbs everywhere, reckless and fragrant - basil bruised between fingers, mint tossed like confetti, parsley scattered the way you’d scatter compliments.
Then there are the charred peaches. Let’s not pretend they’re optional. Peaches halved, kissed by flame, edges caramelising into that smoky, honeyed sweetness that makes everyone go quiet for a second. Someone drizzles them with olive oil, someone else with a rogue splash of vinegar and suddenly they’re not dessert, not salad, not anything you can label neatly. They’re just…right. Add burrata that sighs into a puddle, a fistful of peppery leaves, maybe a crumble of something salty and you’ve got a dish that feels like Summer leaning in for a hug.
Natural wines are the co-conspirators here - bright, a little wild and deeply unbothered by perfection. Bottles arriving clouded and glowing, tasting like orchards, spices, skin contact, sea breezes, or whatever the winemaker got up to that year. You don’t need a lecture; you need a refill.
The beauty of these wines is how they behave in the daylight: casual, curious, made for passing around. They ask you to feel rather than analyse. To toast without a speech. To keep the table in a state of gentle, happy motion.
The long lunch has its own physics. Dishes don’t arrive in courses; they appear in waves. A platter of grilled zucchini. A bowl of olives with lemon peel and chilli. Sardines on toast. Cold roast chicken that somebody swore was "just in case,” yet somehow becomes the star.
There’s always a big salad, always something pickled, always one dish that looks like a scribble until you taste it and realise it’s a masterpiece. People drift from seats to shade to sun and back again, punctuating conversations with bites, like commas you can eat.
Most of all, the long lunch is a mood of permission. Permission to linger. To snack between meals. To let stories meander. To pour another glass because the light is still good. To make a simple afternoon feel like a festival of small pleasures.
