Bread baked before sunrise, olive oil pressed within sight of the sea, and a table that is meant to be sat at slowly.
Breakfast on this coast is not a course; it is a spread. Twenty or so small dishes arrive at once, and the pleasure lies in moving between them without hurry — a spoon of thick village honey, a piece of sheep's cheese, tomatoes that were on the vine the previous evening.
Our bread is baked on the property before six. The olive oil comes from groves close enough that you can see the hillsides they grow on from the terrace. The herbs — wild thyme, mint, sage — are gathered along the headland rather than ordered in.
Twenty small dishes, and no reason at all to hurry.
The rhythm matters as much as the ingredients. We set breakfast late and leave it long, because the terrace at nine in the morning, with the bay still glassy, is one of the best rooms in the hotel.
If you are heading out for the day, ask the kitchen the night before. A basket travels well to Ephesus, to a gulet, or simply to a bench above the water.
