A burrata torn open by candlelight, prosciutto and figs beside it, an electric guitar in the background

Candlelit · Hand-pulled · Not safe for white shirts

So wet
it leaves
a mark.

Candles lit. Guitar in the corner. Nobody's touching the piano tonight. A thin, trembling skin, a soft, heavy centre — press it and it gives, tear it and it runs all over the plate, the bread, your fingers. We bottled the feeling and called it Burrata Juice.

Get it on your plate

Pulled at dawnStill warm when it's packed60% cream by weightShipped cold, eaten hot-bloodedSausage optional, recommended

The goods

We'd tell you to look away, but you won't. Every one of these was torn open by candlelight, moments before the shutter went. The cream was still moving. So was the music.

Burrata torn wide open, cream spilling over basil — The money shot

Burrata split open beside a candle and a glass of red — Split, spread, spilling

Burrata with roasted tomatoes and basil, candle behind — Oiled up, candle lit

Burrata on black slate with rose petals — Petals on the plate

Burrata with chilli and sun-dried tomatoes — A little heat

Burrata on a wooden board between two candles — Slow song

Burrata on a blue-and-white plate with edible flowers — Dressed for the occasion

Burrata on dark slate, glistening with oil — Over the edge

Burrata with pesto and pine nuts — Covered in it

Burrata with roasted cherry tomatoes and basil — Red light

Burrata with a halved fig and a candle — Lights off, amp on

Why ours is so wet

Supermarket burrata is made stiff so it can sit untouched for a week. Ours is made soft because it won't last the night. We stretch the skin until you can see your fingers through it, then we stuff it past the point of decency with cream and torn curd. It's too much. That's the point.

Pulled by hand, slowly. No moulds. No machines. Every skin is stretched warm and tied by someone who knows exactly how far it can go.
Filled past full. Sixty percent stracciatella by weight. Most makers stop at forty. Cowards.
Served at body temperature. Take it out of the fridge an hour before. Cold burrata is a tragedy. Warm burrata is a confession.
Forty-eight hours of perfection. After that it firms up, like everything does. Don't let it.

Pairings

Bring a sausage.

Two burratas on their own are a lovely evening. Two burratas with a fat, blistered sausage tucked between them, a few candles going and someone picking at a guitar in the next room — that's a different evening entirely. Fennel, pork, a bit of chilli, grilled until the skin snaps and the fat runs into the cream. It's a pairing that doesn't ask permission, and frankly neither should you.

Size matters, within reason. One good sausage, not three timid ones.
Hot meets cold. Straight off the grill, straight into the cream. Watch it melt.
Lie it in the middle. Not on top. Not beside. Between. You'll see why.
Set the mood. Candles, not overheads. Something slow on the piano. Leave the guitar where they can see it.

A grilled sausage between two burratas, piano keys glowing behind — A tight fit, in B minor

Two burratas with a sausage between them on dark slate — Nestled

Sausage between two burratas, electric guitar in the background — Three chords in

Sausage between two burratas, cream running onto the board — Encore

"He played three chords, I tore it open with my hands, and we never did get to the main course."— A customer who asked not to be named, for obvious reasons

Get it while it's wet

Boxes of four or eight, packed in brine, shipped on ice, Tuesday to Thursday. Ordering opens soon. Leave your email and we'll tell you the moment it's ready — discreetly, obviously.

You must be 18+ to receive dairy this suggestive. We will never share your email, or what you did with the bread.

So wetit leavesa mark.

The goods

Why ours is so wet

Bring a sausage.

Get it while it's wet

So wet
it leaves
a mark.