T H E
F A R M

Forty minutes south of Marrakech, past the bustle of the Amizmiz road, the land opens up near Tameslouht. The air is cooler here, the light softer. Olive groves line the fields, irrigated by channels that have run since the Almoravid dynasty.

Our farm occupies a small plot here — olive groves planted by someone's great-grandfather, vegetable gardens we tend ourselves, herbs that perfume the morning air. It is not a large operation. It was never meant to be. It exists to supply our table at Riad di Siena with produce we can trust.

The tomatoes that arrive in August, so ripe they barely survive the journey. The mint that goes into every pot of tea. The olive oil pressed each November from fruit we picked ourselves. The eggs from chickens who have never seen a cage.

We don't use pesticides. We don't force growth. We plant according to season, harvest when ready, and accept that some years the yield is generous and some years it is not. This is how food was grown here for a thousand years before industrial agriculture arrived — and it's how we intend to keep growing it.

The Farm is not open to visitors. But when you sit down to breakfast at Riad di Siena, know that much of what you're eating traveled only forty minutes to reach your plate, grown by people we know, on land we tend.

That's the point. Not everything needs to scale. Some things are better kept small.