Farro returns with new autumn menu after difficult month-long closure

The First Footsteps on Newly-Oiled Pine

At exactly half-past five, the brass handle turns and Farro’s entrance sighs open, releasing a lungful of vine-leaf dampness and hearth smoke into the cool Cape evening. The pioneer guests cross the threshold, hesitate for a heartbeat, the way travellers do when they sense a place has been yearned for. No grand remodel has happened - still the pewter counter that hugs twelve souls, still the mellow globes that double in copper pans - yet every item feels freshly sworn in, as though someone had murmured “once more” while polishing it back into place.

Alex Windebank looms at the pass, eye-level with a tray of custard that will soon swirl into quince-ripple ice-cream. He flicks a glance toward the room: one curt dip of the chin that says he has already argued with municipal clerks, Twitter grumblers, plumbers and his own bank balance, and the only rational answer left is to knife another onion. Amanda Mbele, chef-de-partie, slides cocoa-coloured shards of maltagliati into mushroom liquor so dark it mirrors the pendant lights like slick tar. Durum for the pasta reached the kitchen only days earlier from Gideon Milling in Caledon; the fungi - golden oyster, king brown, forest shiitake - still smell of pine bark after the short hop from a Grabouw grower.

Eloise Windebank patrols the narrow aisle between stove and tables with the coiled focus of a stage manager on press-night. She ferries welcome drinks: a quince spritz of verjus and local cap classique, each flute wearing a translucent sail of dehydrated quince. “We were staring at crates of quinces that wanted to rot while we stayed dark,” she jokes. “So we sentenced them to become the entire menu.”

Communion at the Counter

By six o’clock the room is packed, conversation pitched half a notch softer, as though loud syllables might crack the spell. At table six a married couple stretch fingertips toward each other; they wed here two summers ago and snagged reopening night the second Eloise posted the date. Up at the counter a lone diner in denim records each plate under her breath: “earth, caramel, Tuesday-night cricket-pitch rain.”

The amuse-bouche lands on wafer-thin eucalyptus off-cuts: a koesister pumped with curried butternut, a parmesan churro dusted in smoked tomato powder, and a thimble of biltong consommé sealed with a see-through leaf of beef tallow. Alex instructs the room to sip it like morning espresso; twelve glasses rise in unison, a wordless toast.

A near-monochrome dish follows - graphite plate, midnight food - until you spot the living motion: a duck-fat madeleine climbing out of its mould, a quenelle of aerated mushroom mousse slumping under its own air, black-garlic caramel shining like freshly pressed vinyl. The taste is fifth-taste tidal: deep enough to force an involuntary sigh through your nose.

Pasta arrives family-style, bowls shuttled hand-to-hand the length of the counter, an intentional echo of lockdown fund-raisers when patrons lugged Tupperware and dropped cash in an empty Bordeaux box. Tonight maltagliati bathes in mushroom stock fortified with smoked snoek skeletons, capped with nut-brown butter that teeters on nougat sweetness. Bread is not sliced bread; Amanda delivers coal-blistered potato flatbread that hisses in its skillet, used to mop the communal bowl until metal gleams.

Between the Courses: Chronicle of a Closure

While pans sizzle, Eloise distributes anecdotes like side plates. She recounts the morning the city turned the water off: staff shuttling stockpots to a neighbour’s garden hose across Dunkley Square, a loyal regular arriving with five-litre bottles of supermarket sparkling water because “you can’t blanch gnocchi in San Pellegrino, but you can shock lettuce.” She mimics the bashous housing inspector who showed up wearing oven mitts, apologising that bureaucracy had no heart. She name-checks the WhatsApp group “Farro Survivors,” where 347 strangers swapped butcher leads, legal PDFs and crying-onion memes while the doors stayed shut.

At eight the bulbs dim a hair, and the curated Cape indie playlist dissolves into the vinyl crackle of Abdullah Ibrahim’s “Mannenberg.” Mains appear, offered in twos, though nearly every guest orders both and stages a mid-course swap meet.

Lamb neck, first cuddled for 48 hours in a sous-vide bath, then lacquered over vine staves until the crust mimics Peking duck, lounges on celeriac velvet the colour of antique piano keys, encircled by tamarind-lamb jus. Opposite, line-caught yellowtail whose skin arcs into brittle shingles perches on a stew of butter beans, confit tomato and fennel pollen - an entire Mediterranean fishing port condensed into a spoon. Vintage bowls crowd the centre: beetroot glazed in Kunu-Kunu beer reduction, thumb-length carrots rolled in sesame ash, potato gratin aerated with truffle off-cuts bartered from a grateful supplier.

Sweet Smoke and a Midnight Tally

Dessert arrives with theatre: Alex wheels a glass cloche on a baby's pram of a trolley, lifts the dome and a rope of smoke climbs toward the ceiling carrying quince, ginger and scorched white chocolate. Hidden beneath: a cube of ginger cake drunk on quince cordial, a spoon of white-chocolate miso ice-cream, and a pane of caramelised quince skin so sheer you could read newsprint through it. Dots of quince-leaf oil glint like jewel beetles on the rim.

While final spoons scrape porcelain, the Windebanks crack a magnum of 2016 Klein Constantia Vin de Constance - donated by a patron - and parcel out thimble measures. A spontaneous cheer erupts when the calculator is flourished: tonight plus the pop-ups of prep week have clawed back twenty-two percent of vanished turnover. Modest, yet galactic in psychological weight.

The last guests linger on the pavement, unwilling to fracture the enchantment. Inside, staff perch on overturned crates for family meal: shredded lamb neck folded into instant noodles, tumblers of inexpensive Chenin, a phone propped against a coffee tin streaming the Arsenal match. Tomorrow the cycle resumes - dawn deliveries, prep lists, yet more quinces - but for now the restaurant inhales, windows steamed opaque, the scent of brown butter and wood smoke drifting across the square to tangle with night-blooming jasmine that colonised a fence once the drought finally broke. Down the road a car radio revisits “Mannenberg,” tinny sax line meandering like a pledge that the tune, like this room, will keep circling as long as shoulders push the door and tongues chase the first quince of the season.

When did Farro reopen?

Farro gloriously reopened its doors at 17:30 (half-past five) on a Wednesday evening.

What kind of atmosphere can I expect at Farro?

Farro offers a warm, communal, and intimate atmosphere. The restaurant features mellow lighting, a pewter counter, and a cozy setting that encourages a shared dining experience, described as feeling freshly sworn in and yearned for.

What are some signature dishes or ingredients at Farro?

Farro's menu is seasonal and features unique ingredients. Highlights include maltagliati pasta with a rich mushroom liquor (fortified with smoked snoek skeletons), duck-fat madeleines with aerated mushroom mousse and black-garlic caramel, lamb neck lacquered over vine staves, line-caught yellowtail, and various quince-based dishes like quince-ripple ice-cream, quince spritz, and a ginger cake with quince cordial.

Who are the key people behind Farro?

Alex Windebank is the chef overseeing the pass, while Amanda Mbele is the chef-de-partie responsible for dishes like the maltagliati. Eloise Windebank manages the front of house, ensuring a smooth experience and sharing anecdotes with guests. The restaurant is a family affair, with Alex and Eloise being integral to its operation.

What makes Farro's pasta special?

The pasta, specifically maltagliati, is made with durum flour sourced from Gideon Milling in Caledon. The mushrooms (golden oyster, king brown, forest shiitake) are locally sourced from a Grabouw grower, ensuring freshness. The pasta is served family-style in a rich mushroom stock, reflecting a communal dining ethos.

Did Farro face any challenges during its closure?

Yes, Farro experienced significant challenges, including the city turning off the water, requiring staff to improvise. Bureaucracy, social media criticism, and financial pressures were also mentioned. The restaurant maintained a WhatsApp group called “Farro Survivors” for 347 strangers to share support and resources during the closure, highlighting the strong community connection.