Sunday in Portofino

Warm light spills across the table first.
Then comes the sound. Glass on glass. Cork easing out. Laughter drifting in and out like the tide.

Sunday in Portofino opens under sun-kissed fingers, each layer turning slowly, deliberately, making space as the afternoon asks for more. Four rotating tiers spread wide across the table, generous enough for every cheese of the hour. Creamy rounds softening in the heat. Sharp edges catching the light. Olives rolling where they please. Crackers snapping. Fruit cut and re-cut because someone changed their mind.

The bamboo feels warm beneath your hands. Smooth. Familiar. Each tier moves with an easy rhythm, creating room without crowding, abundance without mess. Nothing is stacked too tightly. Nothing is rushed. There is always space for one more bite, one more pour.

When the board finally closes, it does so quietly. Compact again. Composed. As if it knows the moment has passed and the table is ready to breathe.

Hidden beneath, stainless steel cheese tools rest in their drawer, cool to the touch, waiting until needed. No clutter. No interruption. Just the kind of hosting that feels effortless because everything has already been thought through.

This is not a cheese board for schedules or serving sizes.
It belongs to afternoons that smell like citrus and salt, to sun on skin, to tables where nobody checks the time and nobody wants to be the first to leave.