Or in a handsome boutique in Williamsburg. Or here

This is a cookbook that no home cook will ever use. It has more text than most novels. The design is achingly spare. The recipes call for things like crisp lichen and “a handful of last year’s autumn leaves”; preparations involve things like burned-out trees and often last roughly a year. It’s a cookbook for fairies and gods. It’s also a profound work of cultural anthropology. As an object, as a document of a life lived with unthinking authenticity, as a portrait of the snowy, wordless moment between our primal past and our possible future, it is rare and beautiful. It has the integrity of undiscovered earth.