We're Home Now.

People often say it takes a village to raise a child.

They’re right.

What they forget to mention is that it also takes a village to open a restaurant.

Kavata has been open for exactly one week.

Seven days.

Barely enough time for a new pair of shoes to decide whether they will become comfortable or simply leave blisters.

When you move to another country with nothing but a suitcase, belonging doesn’t come packed inside it. It doesn’t wait for you at passport control.

You have to build it.

I think that’s why we tried to build a little home.

Before you arrived, Kavata was simply a room with tables, plates, and chairs that still made unfamiliar sounds against the floor.

Then you walked through the door.

And somehow it became a home.

We’ve only just met, but we’ve already grown very fond of you. We hope that one day you’ll walk in saying, “The usual, please,” as though you’ve always belonged here.

We’ve watched people cry over our mantı.

We’ve heard guests quietly say, “For the first time in a long time, I feel at home.”

Moments like those reminded us exactly why we started this journey.

During our first week, forks, knives, and glasses disappeared with remarkable enthusiasm. Apparently cutlery also dreams of travelling.

Our storage-room door taught us patience every single day.

A mysterious soft black object appeared in the bathroom and reminded us that life occasionally refuses to explain itself.

We also learned that complimentary bread means very different things depending on where you grew up.

Opening a restaurant, it turns out, involves far more than cooking.

We’re still learning.

Every day.

The road ahead is long.

Occasionally steep.

Frequently ridiculous.

And far more beautiful than we imagined.

To everyone who laughed with us, celebrated with us, got lost with us, and helped us feel at home…

Thank you.

But every village has its quiet heroes.

Ours begins with Julia.

Our head chef.

She said yes to this wonderfully unreasonable idea before there was much more than hope.

She memorised Turkish words one by one, embraced recipes as though they belonged to her own childhood, cooked, served, solved problems, and somehow kept smiling through hundreds of guests.

To her family: thank you.

You didn’t just raise an exceptional chef.

You raised an extraordinary human being.

Then there’s Pol.

Our art director.

He stopped painting walls to pour tea.

He taught us how to pour beer properly.

Whenever we rushed so fast that we forgot to notice the moment, he reminded us to slow down.

Sometimes a place becomes a home not because of its furniture, but because someone teaches you to breathe inside it.

Then came Dimo.

Our Bulgarian friend who suddenly became part of the story.

He never grew tired of telling our story to your tables.

When we ran out of energy, somehow he still had plenty left for us.

Sanjeeb became the quiet backbone of the kitchen.

Always there.

Always steady.

The strongest kitchens are often held together by the calmest people.

And Sezin...

Thank you for choosing to walk this road with us from the very beginning.

Sometimes what a restaurant needs isn’t years of experience, but curiosity, enthusiasm, and the courage to simply say, “I’m in.”

You showed up every day ready to learn, ready to help, and willing to grow alongside us.

We’re grateful that you’re part of this story.

From afar, Çağan kept us on course.

When money became frighteningly real, he reminded us to stay sensible without giving up the dream.

Huriye, the mother of our family, quietly carried generations of recipes while making sure we were fed as we tried to feed you.

Helle, our second mother, stood beside us through dust, renovations, exhaustion, and endless acts of kindness, both practical and emotional.

And of course, to the suppliers who never let our kitchen run empty... Boran, Natoora, Kılıç…

Every morning, you arrived at our door carrying more than ingredients.

You brought trust.

Good food begins long before the first plate leaves the kitchen.

To the Fullhouse family…

Thank you for standing beside us from the very beginning and never hesitating to support us.

Sometimes the greatest investment someone can make is simply believing in you.

And to all of the winemakers who carried Anatolia to Copenhagen, one bottle at a time...

Every bottle arrived with far more than grapes.

It carried vineyards, families, stories, generations of knowledge, and years of patient work.

Without you, we would have had fewer stories to tell.

And finally…

The quietest hero of all.

My husband, Juri.

Some people build restaurants.

Others quietly hold up the people building them.

Without him, there would simply be no Kavata.

And then there are you.

Our guests.

Our neighbours in Sydhavn.

You didn’t leave us alone for a single minute during our first week.

I began this story by talking about a village.

I think we found ours.

Or perhaps a village is simply the place where, after a long journey, someone finally says,

“We’re home.”

We are.

Finally, we’re home.

Sincerely,

Nesrin Eren