The press room gave way to the restaurant room. The colors, the floors, the asses of the ceiling, the presses, all that remained of the abandonment to which it was voted during 20 years were kept.
It is in this room that there is the Worm, the wall-socks with the House of Tulhas. The Worm is a machine, a spindle that transports the olives from the bins where they were cleaned to the mixer. They were ground here and the resulting paste scattered on the Mouriscas. By magic and steam, they pressed and on the other side the oil decanted dripped in the great deposits of sizzling water. The first, the most virgin of them all, was soon to be found, with a piece of bread sprinkled on a wire in the salamanders. They were the ones that warmed the water, they are now heating the winter. What was left of this process was going to Hell, or to the Thief, because he would always sneak a little to take it home.
The shale tables, Gil’s paintings and lamps, the presses where memories of walks and trips are kept, the colored chairs, the space where the soul still glows and the smell of olive oil, once healing and now seasoning, is now a Wellness room and well eat. The senses are in celebration, it smells like olive oil and there is music from the world and the earth.
And it is the Olive Oil, the lord of the press, the codfish with his garlic, the crumbs of tomatoes and spinach and asparagus, the Salads Without End, the Alentejano soups, sautéed, lamb and bread. SF flavors that never end and satisfy after the look, soul, in the dainty of each tidbit. The glory of the sweets is of the hand of Glory, the Mousse, the Sweet rice, the Sweet crumbs, the ice cream with the hot chocolate, the conventuals and all the others.
To the industrial environment was added the ephemeral of the simple elements that are left there, and the time produces. The winter trips inspire the spring that wants to be prosperous, satisfying the senses of those who arrive here and stays and returns again, with love, with family, friends, late afternoon or for the party of the night – SF Is infinite. To the imagination of each one, our will to make it better, because being in the Alentejo is worth it.
Telheiro - Monsaraz