Menu

Half-cured mackerel dressed with good oil, charred leeks that taste almost like smoke, and preserved plums from last summer that give the whole thing a soft, sweet edge. A piece of sourdough on the side.

Leaves we can't quite name, picked at their most aggressive, wilted just enough in butter that's been browned until it smells like hazelnuts. Anchovy melted into it, a crack of salt, a piece of grilled bread to use as a sponge.

Small carrots, beets, parsnips — whatever came in small and sweet — roasted hard until their edges caramelize, then cooled and piled on cool whipped goat curd. Crushed walnuts, burnt sage, good oil. A warm and cold thing on one plate.

A whole bream roasted skin-side down until the skin is crisp and the flesh stays tender. A knob of herb butter melting into it — thyme, tarragon, parsley. New potatoes, peas, young carrots from the first plantings, all treated gently. Sea salt.

A rib braised low and slow until the meat slides from the bone. Red wine in the pot, pearl onions gone soft and sweet, mushrooms that have absorbed all the dark, rich juice. We serve it with bread to soak it up. Mashed root vegetables on the side.

A cut of chicken — thigh, maybe breast — cooked in a pan with leeks that have softened nearly to nothing, good mustard stirred in at the end, and cream that makes the whole thing silky. Served with a simple grain or potatoes. The kind of dish that tastes like someone's home kitchen.

A whole celeriac roasted until its skin cracks and the inside is tender and sweet. Kale that's been dressed with something acidic and worked until it softens. Toasted hazelnuts, crispy sage, brown butter. This is not a side dressed up — it's a main that happens to be vegetable.

Early rhubarb, tart enough to make you wince, cooked down with a touch of honey until it's soft and jam-like. Piled into a buttery pastry case that's been baked until it's genuinely crisp. A spoonful of cold crème fraîche cuts through the sharpness. Warm from the oven.

Dark chocolate set into something airy and light, cold and just slightly bitter. A shot of espresso on the side to drink with it, or poured over. A crack of sea salt on top so you taste all three things at once. Simple and it works.

Something dry and fresh — think Loire or Alsace — that wakes the palate and doesn't get in the way of the food. Drinks cold, goes with nearly everything we cook.

White wine made like red, sitting on its skins until it takes on colour and texture. Different, alive, pairs beautifully with the earthier starters and the lighter mains.

Something cool-climate and elegant — Pinot, maybe a young Burgundy — that's more about finesse than power. Drinks well at a relaxed temperature, doesn't overpower.

The wine for the rib, the game, the moment you want something with body. We choose producers over regions — people who make wine the way we cook food.

A rotating pour from the bar — a crisp white and a red, picked to stand alone or with a light bite if you're not staying for a full meal. Always something worth trying.

We cook a shorter, fixed-price menu for Friday lunch — a chance to sit down midday without a long evening commitment. Three courses, the same careful approach, a more relaxed pace. Fortnightly like the main menu, but built for a lighter sitting. Book a table on the booking page and let us know you're coming.

Every Sunday we roast one thing — beef, lamb, chicken, whatever makes sense that week — and serve it properly. All the trimmings, the kind of meal that takes time and doesn't need to be rushed. Yorkshire pudding, gravy, seasonal vegetables, potatoes done two ways. A long, generous sitting. Book ahead and arrive hungry.