Dear Annie doesn’t scream for your attention—it earns it quietly, confidently, like a handwritten letter you didn’t know you needed. Part natural wine bar, part seafood-forward kitchen, and fully communal, it’s the kind of place that makes you slow down without ever saying it out loud.

There’s no traditional seating. No reservations. Just long, shared tables, handwritten menus, and wines that lean wild, bright, and a little feral—in the best way. You order at the counter and find your place in the rhythm of the room. It’s fluid, informal, and deeply intentional.

The food is local, seasonal, and seafood-heavy, with an unfussy elegance that makes even a smoked fish toast feel revelatory. It’s a space that champions sustainability without being sanctimonious, and hospitality without pretense.

More than a restaurant, Dear Annie feels like a manifesto—one written in natural wine, salty butter, and low lighting.