A Sunday grill that never went out.

The alcaraván is a bird of the plains of Colombia and Venezuela. It sings at dusk, right when the grills are lit and the families sit down to eat. That is the hour this restaurant is named for.

It started in a Queens backyard: a family grill every Sunday, arepas on the plancha, a pot of sancocho for whoever came by. The neighbors kept coming, then their friends, then people who had heard about it from people they had never met. Twenty years later the grill moved to Ninth Avenue, and the table got bigger.

Everything still starts on the wood fire. The recipes are the family's, the corn is ground every morning, and if you ask for something the way your grandmother made it, someone in the kitchen will probably understand exactly what you mean.