Taverna del Duca, Locorotondo, Puglia

The town of Locorotondo pretty much does what it says on the tin. As you might expect of a town with five o's in its name, it's a round place that sits, like other towns in this region, atop a small hill that rises like a bump from the plain below. A neat and tidy town of bleached stone and whitewash.

Tucked away in the old part of the town, not that there really is a new part, La Taverna del Duca keeps itself to itself. From the outside it's just a door and a sign - no windows, no menu. Inside, the dining room of just half a dozen check-clothed tables is open to the tiny kitchen in the corner, dominated by a large wood-burning oven.

The no menu theme continues inside too. When we arrived, the owner, chef and waitress – yes, that's all one person – beamed us a welcome, directed us to a table and asked us in Italian what we would like to eat. We asked if she had a menu. Patiently our hostess, a woman in her early forties perhaps, with large and intense dark eyes, explained in single words, each one emphasised by pressing one forefinger against the other, that there was antipasti... pasta... carne... We agreed to the antipasti, so we were off the mark. And pasta, yes please. And the carne, why not? We really had no idea what we were about to receive.

The woman smiled and retired to her kitchen, quickly returning with a basket of roughly-hewn bread and a chipped ceramic jug of white primitivo wine. Then a plate of olives. Then a couple of plates of antipasti. Then a couple more. And more. There were smokily grilled peppers, small balls of burrata which burst into cold creaminess, sweet buttery ham, a purée of beans and a dish of humble cauliflower that was revelatory. While we ate our hostess busied herself in the kitchen, at intervals poking her head inside the wood-fired oven to check the progress of whatever was inside. Next, the pasta. Huge bowls of orechiette in a simple but delicious fresh tomato sauce.

Then an earthenware dish was brought to the table bearing a bubbling piece of braised meat: "stinco!" she proclaimed proudly. Stinco, we discovered, is shin of pork. At the lightest touch it collapsed off the bone into the wine and vegetable sauce that bathed it. Nothing accompanied it, and nothing was needed. When the shin had been picked to the bone and the wine jug was empty, Antonella (for by now this is how we knew her) insisted that we try her cake. When I declined she patted my stomach, as one might pat a drum to check its taughtness, then smiled and insisted I had a grappa instead. 'Piccolo, piccolo' I protested, weakly. A huge glass of grappa arrived. She laughed and patted my stomach again. Finally, coffee. Full, glowing, and very, very happy, we said our thank yous and farewells.

And were back next evening.

Taverna del Duca, Via Papadotera, 3, 70010 Locorotondo (BA)

Tel 0804 313007

This is one of the best places I have eaten in my life. Really. If you're within a hundred miles, make the detour.