The oven came first.
Before the tables, before the menu, before there was a name on the door, there was a decision that made everything harder: we were going to cook with fire and wood. It would have been easier not to. A wood oven is built by hand, brick by brick. Then it has to be dried slowly, over days, with small fires that do nothing but drive the water out of it — light it too fast and it cracks, and you start again. It has to be fed, watched, learned. It has its moods. Then you take the first pizza out of it and you understand why people have been doing this for two thousand years.
Then came the rest.
Once the fire was lit, the menu chose itself. Plăcinte, made the way they're made at home, because some things were perfected long before we got to them. Wraps prepared to order, for the people who come through the door with a real hunger. Nothing invented for the sake of a menu. Just the food we eat, done properly.
Early enough for a coffee and something warm before work. And until eight in the evening, time enough for an unhurried dinner. In between, the oven stays lit and the door stays open.
Amici means friends. We didn't choose it as decoration. We chose it because it describes exactly what we wanted the room to feel like at seven o'clock on an ordinary evening — full, loud, easy, full of people who came back.