Emberhall

We light the fire at three o'clock every afternoon. By six, the coals are white, the room smells faintly of smoke, and the kitchen goes quiet. Almost everything you eat tonight will pass over that fire — slowly, and without shortcuts.

The menu is short because the fire demands attention. A few cuts, chosen weekly. Vegetables treated with the same seriousness as the meat. Wines from small growers who farm the way we cook — patiently, and by hand.

And there is bread. Baked each afternoon in the falling heat of the oven, served warm, with butter folded through burnt onions. People have crossed the city for it. We understand why.