Three services. One kitchen.
Breakfast faces the sunrise, lunch belongs to the terrace, and the evening is written once, for one table. Below is the day as the kitchen keeps it — when each service runs, which room it runs in, and what is on it.
- Services
- Three
- Rooms
- Four
- First coffee
- 07:00
- Longest table
- 14
The kitchen
The lake sets the timetable. The kitchen keeps to it.
The kitchen runs on one rule and the rule is the lake: nothing is served against the light, and no service is asked to be two things at once.
Morning · 07:00–10:30
Morning is not rushed here. It is watched.
The lake room faces due east, and breakfast is timed to it. Tables are laid the night before, the first coffee is poured at seven, and the light arrives over the ridge somewhere between the two. Window seats are never reserved — they belong to whoever wakes first.
The kitchen keeps the morning close to home: milk and butter from the valley’s two dairies, bread from a stone oven lit at four, eggs done one way each day and named on a card at the table.
From the kitchen
-
Valley dairy
Butter, fresh cheese, and yogurt from two farms below the pass, carried up each morning.
-
The four o’clock loaves
Stone-oven breads baked dark, with preserves from the summer store.
-
Eggs of the day
One preparation each morning, named on a card, with herbs from the kitchen garden.
Before the light
What the morning assumes.
IN-SUITE
Breakfast travels — served in your rooms until 11:00.
WINDOW TABLES
Never reserved. They belong to whoever wakes first.
DIETARY
Tell us the evening before; the oven is lit at four.
Midday · 12:00–16:00
Lunch belongs to the terrace.
From noon the kitchen turns toward the water. Forty seats under linen on the terrace, a few metres above the lake; the plates are light, cold where the day is warm, and meant to be ordered in twos and threes rather than courses.
Come as you are — from the water, from the trails, from the spa if a robe is the state of things. When weather crosses the lake, the menu moves to the west windows and waits for it to pass.
On the terrace
-
Char crudo
Lake char, cold-cured, dressed with lemon oil and garden shoots.
-
Garden plates
Whatever the garden gave up that morning, dressed simply and served cold.
-
Wood-oven flatbread
Blistered, torn, and passed around the table.
On the day
What the terrace asks.
WEATHER
When rain crosses the lake, the menu moves indoors and waits.
TIMING
No reservations. Last plates leave the kitchen at a quarter to four.
DRESS
Come from the water, the trails, or the spa — a robe is dress enough.
Evening · By arrangement
One evening, composed for one table.
Private dining here is not a room you book but an evening you compose. It begins with a conversation — forty-eight hours ahead, longer for larger tables — about what the night is for. The menu is written once, and never repeated.
Two rooms hold these evenings. The cellar: stone walls, candlelight, a single table among the vintages. The pavilion: glass on three sides at the water’s edge, one table of fourteen with the whole lake to itself.
How the evening takes shape
-
The conversation
The chef calls first. The occasion decides the menu; it is written once, for you.
-
The table
The cellar seats ten among the vintages; the pavilion seats fourteen on the water.
-
The pairing
The sommelier draws from the house cellar, or builds the evening around a bottle you bring.
Before the evening
What is settled first.
NOTICE
Forty-eight hours, longer in high season. The chef calls you first.
OCCASIONS
Anniversaries, quiet business, a question you plan to ask over dessert.
THE ROOMS
The cellar seats ten; the pavilion seats fourteen at the water’s edge.