The Bread-Dip Ritual.

This isn’t waiting.

It’s the first course you never planned.

It starts before the grill opens.

Before the sizzle quiets.

Before the table is filled.

A hand tears bread.

Crust meets sauce.

It drinks deep.

Plates stay empty.

No one hurries.

Forks lie still.

Bread takes the lead.

Dipping isn’t a distraction.

It’s the prologue.

A bite that awakens the tongue.

A moment claimed

while the fire still works.

Bread.

Dip.

Bread.

Dip.

Unrushed.

Unspoken.

Again.

Only then comes the rest.

The heat, the feast, the spread.

But the ritual stays.

Because it’s nothing fancy.

And it’s always the start.

Zuhause des Feinen.