A corner on the Laconian Gulf.
Ninety degrees. The corner where our doors meet the harbor road — and the compass bearing our boats take out of Gythio every dawn. Three generations, same angle, same family, since 1959.
The grandfather fished. The son cooked. The grandchildren still do both. What comes out of the water at six in the morning is on a plate by twelve. What doesn't get caught that day, doesn't get served. That's the whole logic of this place.
Our oil is pressed in the Mani hills above us. Our wine is drawn from the barrel. Our fish is priced by the kilo because the fish decides what it weighs, not us. Sit at a table on Tzanni Tzannetaki, order what the day brought in, watch the harbor. That's dinner.