The kitchen hides in a carved niche, almost monastic in its restraint: matte oak fronts, brass pulls aged to a gentle burnish, an induction slab that disappears when the counter cover slides shut.
He routed ventilation through existing fissures, preserving the cave’s steady climate. Bread proves perfectly here; herbs keep forever; wine needs no sermon to rest.
“Caves are honest,” he says, setting mugs on the ledge. “They tell you when you’re burning the garlic.” The backsplash is the rock itself, sealed with breathable lime so it can exhale.
There’s a quiet luxury in how little is visible—no upper cabinets crowding the air, only stone, wood, and a line of warm light that makes the whole room exhale.
