The press room was replaced by a restaurant. The colours, the floors, the roof trusses, the presses, the machines, everything that remained from the abandonment to which it had been subjected for twenty years were kept.
The Sem-fim is a machine, a spindle that transports the olives from the bins, where they were cleaned, to the mixer. Here they were ground and the resulting paste spread over the moors. They were pressed and on the other side the oil ran into the large tanks of scalding water. The first, the most virgin of all, was tasted with a piece of bread that was toasted on a wire stuck in the salamanders. They were the ones that heated the water, and now they are the ones that heat the winter. What was left over from this process went to Hell, or to the Thief, because a little was always spilled to take home.
The slate and marble tables, Gil's paintings and lamps, Glória's presses, the colorful chairs, the space where the soul of olive oil, the supreme seasoning, still shines. The senses are in celebration, the smell of olive oil, the music of the world and the earth can be heard.
And it is Olive Oil, the master of the press, in the cod with garlic, in the migas de pingo, spinach and asparagus, in the Sem-Fim salads, in the soups and açordas, in the sautéed dishes, in the lamb and in the bread. SF flavors that never end and satisfy the soul in the delicacy of each snack. The glory of the sweets is from Glória's hand, the Mousse, the rice pudding, the sweet migas, the farófias and encharcadas, and sericaias, the conventuals and all the others. At the bar, the cante is drunk on inspired days. A piece of bread, a semi-cured cheese and a handful of olives tune the voice and warm the soul.