Black figs, warm bread

Toast a thick slice of sourdough and spread it while it is still warm with ricotta. Tear over ripe black figs, spoon on a little honey, and finish with good olive oil and cracked pepper.

Set it out with green olives, a wedge of lemon and a small dish of flaky salt. It asks for a bright morning and a slow hour, and not much more than that.

We plate it on a bare Sand plate — the warm clay under the fruit is half the reason to make it.

Figs bruise the moment you fuss with them, so tear rather than slice, and only at the last minute. The ricotta should be at room temperature — cold from the fridge it sits on the toast like a lid instead of sinking in.

There is nothing here worth calling a recipe, which is rather the point. It is an assembly, not a dish: good bread, ripe fruit, a wedge of lemon, oil you would happily drink. On a bare plate that has warmed in the morning sun, it needs no more than that.

Buy the figs the same day you want them and not before — a fig that has sat a week arrives already tired, its sugar gone slack. A good one gives a little under the thumb and barely smells of anything until you break it open, when it turns suddenly and briefly floral.

It scales by the slice rather than the recipe, which is the quiet luxury of a plate you assemble instead of cook: make it for one on a Tuesday or for six on a Sunday, and the only thing that changes is how much bread you put under the grill.