The tomatoes have arrived

Every July there’s a week where the tomatoes stop being polite and start being loud. That week is now.

We bought more Early Girls at Saturday’s market than strictly fit in the walk-in, so for the next stretch you’ll see them everywhere: blistered next to the burrata, folded into a pomodoro we only make in summer, and — if you ask nicely at the bar — sliced with nothing but olive oil and salt, the way they deserve.

Come before they’re gone. The market giveth, and the market taketh away.