Leeks buried whole in the dying fire, split at the table, hazelnut brown butter, cured egg yolk grated like snow.
Sourdough baked against the oven wall; butter smoked overnight over cherry wood, flaked salt, no apologies.
Coal-roasted beets, warm goat cheese, burnt honey, rye crumb.
Dry-aged rib over white binchotan; rested as long as it cooked; bone-marrow jus, charred spring onion. For two, if you are wise.
Wrapped and laid on the embers until the leaves give up; verjus, fennel pollen, grilled lemon.
Cracked open like a geode; black garlic cream, crisped sage, oil pressed from our own grove.
Burnt-butter chocolate crémeux, charcoal tuile, smoked vanilla ice cream.
Whatever fruit the market gave us, grilled over the last of the coals; honey from the roof, sheep's yogurt.
Five pours chosen nightly from small farms — tonight: a skin-contact white that tastes like the smoke is remembering an orchard.