Written in chalk, every morning.

A flat fish laid skin-down over driftwood coals, basted with a vinegar-and-garlic refrito, the skin blistered, the flesh peeling off the bone in slabs. Priced by weight, split easily between two.

A thick loin off the morning boats, grilled hard on the skin, served with the throat collars cooked down soft in their own gelatin. Plain, and better for it.

Packed whole in coarse salt and set at the edge of the fire until the crust sets hard. Cracked open at the table, the flesh steams off the bone, clean and barely seasoned because it does not need more.

Six fat sardines laid straight across the hottest bars, skin split and charred, eaten with your fingers and a heel of bread to catch the oil. The smell of summer on this coast.

A thick bone-in rib chop from an old dairy cow, salted heavy, seared hard on the bars until the fat runs and the crust cracks, rested and sliced to the bone. Served rare in the middle, charred at the edge, the way the fire wants it.

Small ribs cooked slow at the cool end of the grill, then pushed into the heat to crisp. Salt, fire, and the time it takes — nothing else on the plate.

Whole leeks charred black in the coals, the burnt outer leaves stripped away to the sweet centers, dressed with a romesco worked from grilled peppers and almonds. Cooked over the same fire as the fish.

Halved romaine hearts grilled cut-side down until the edges catch and the core stays cool and crisp, anchovy and lemon over the top. Whatever else the garden sent us that week sits alongside.

Natural Basque cider, poured tableside from a meter up so it splashes against the side of the glass and opens. Dry, a little wild, the right thing against the fire. We pour it for you.

A wedge of smoked sheep's-milk cheese from the hills behind the city, quince paste, a few walnuts. The end of the meal, the way it has always ended here.