From a quiet dinner for two on a terrace, to a multi-day chef in residence, to a celebration that fills a courtyard — every booking is shaped, sourced and served by the same small team.
What we can do for you.
Five ways of working with us — each shaped to a different kind of evening, a different size of party, a different rhythm of stay.
Private chef at your villa.
A chef arrives in the afternoon with the produce. By dusk, your villa smells of thyme smoke, charred lemon and warm bread. Dinner is served on the terrace, in the courtyard, or wherever you want to be — and when the last glass is poured, the kitchen is left as it was found.
Special events.
Anniversaries, proposals, milestone birthdays, post-wedding family lunches. Full production — from the menu to the linen, the florals, the glassware, and the discreet service team that makes it disappear.
Yacht dining.
Lunch on deck off Antiparos. Dinner anchored in a quiet bay. We board with the produce, cook from your galley, and serve a menu built around the day’s catch and the wind direction.
Chef in residence.
Three meals a day, snacks between, and a kitchen that quietly fits the rhythm of your week. Booked by the day or by the stay — most families ask for four to ten days.
Villa prestocking.
We arrive ahead of you. The fridge is full of what you actually eat, the pantry is stocked, the bread is from this morning, and a small first dinner is plated and ready in the oven for whenever you walk through the door.
Pre-stock my villaSix evenings, quietly remembered.
A few examples from the last two seasons — anonymised, but accurate to the menu, the team, and the small decisions that made the night land. Most of our enquiries arrive shaped by something on this list.
A table for two, and a question.
Booked four months in advance by a guest in Singapore, in a single short email — “I’d like to ask her to marry me, and I’d like the dinner to be the reason she remembers the night, not the proposal.”
A bottle of Champagne held in ice on the terrace from seven onwards, never mentioned, never offered — kept ready only for after the answer.
The day after the wedding.
A French-Greek family had married off their daughter the night before. They wanted the next day to feel like nothing was being performed — long lunch, no speeches, kids running around, grandparents seated and never asked to move.
A separate, quieter table set for the children at one end — same food, smaller portions, ceramic mugs of cold lemonade kept full without anyone asking.
A 60th birthday, anchored off Despotiko.
Eight friends, one chartered yacht, a milestone birthday no-one wanted to label as such. We boarded at noon in Parikia with the produce, cooked from the galley, and served dinner once the captain found a bay quiet enough to hear the cicadas from shore.
No singing. The cake — a single olive-oil and orange tart, no candles — arrived as the eighth course. The toast was decided by the guest of honour, not us.
A week with three generations.
A British family of eleven took a villa in Naoussa for a week — grandparents, two adult children with partners, four kids under ten. Coeliac at one end, two pescatarians, a child who only eats white food. The brief: “Feed everyone, don’t make us think about food once.”
A separate gluten-free baking station set up off-kitchen on day one — the coeliac grandfather later said it was the first holiday in twenty years he hadn’t worried at every meal.
A 30th anniversary, and a return.
A couple from Geneva, on their fourth booking with us in five years. The brief was four words: “Same as last September.” We rebuilt the menu around what they’d loved before — the slow-cooked lamb, the fig leaf ice cream — and let the rest reveal itself.
The fig leaf ice cream — folded together that afternoon, from a tree behind the villa next door, with permission asked over the wall and figs offered in return.
A founder’s retreat, off the record.
A small fund flew their portfolio founders out for three days of unstructured conversation. We were asked to handle every meal — no badges, no dietary forms, no AV — and to stay invisible until the wine started moving.
A late-night ouzo bar set up beside the pool on the second evening — unannounced, not on the brief, but exactly the kind of small permission a tired room needed.