Himarë · Albania
The blue room
The stripes are the first thing in the frame and the last thing you forget: wide bands of blue and white running the full height of the back wall, with the name written across them in neon.
Over the counter
A cook drawn in light
He hangs above the counter, outlined in gold neon — a buttoned chef’s jacket, chef’s hat, a blue neckerchief and a pizza carried flat on one hand. The same warm light runs down the terrace on knotted ropes, one bulb to a rope, the whole length of the pine ceiling.
The terrace
Covered, and open to the street
Tables run along the rail at the front, close enough to the pavement to watch the road, and carry on inside past the counter. The chairs are yellow and grey; the tables are dark and small. Fans are bolted to the wall.
At the counter, trays sit behind glass and flat boxes stand open beside them. Both halves of the trade happen in the same few metres: a table under the ceiling, or a box in your hands on the way to Spile, the town beach.
Finding it
Blue and white, floor to ceiling, with the neon across it.
On the board
What comes out
Round, brought out on a wooden board. The rim rises and keeps its flour, and the edge comes back flecked dark in places from the heat. Cheese under salami, cut and eaten where it lands.
A round pizza on a wooden board at the counter: cheese under salami, its raised rim flour-dusted and spotted dark where it caught the heat, with trays and open flat boxes on the counter behind