We started with one room above the harbour. Eleven tables, two cooks, one dishwasher, and a window that looked out at the boats. We never set out to run a group of restaurants. We set out to run one good one.
The second room came because the first one was full every night, and because we missed cooking over fire. The third came because we missed the market. The fourth came because we missed cooking the food we eat at home.
Four rooms is the right number. We can cook in all of them; we can be in all of them. The day we add a fifth is the day we have to choose between cooking and running a company, and we are cooks first.
Each room has a job. Ember Hall is for fire, for the long Sunday lunch, for the table of eight who want to sit a while. The Glasshouse is for light, for the daytime, for a meal that feels close to the soil. North Pier is for the raw bar, for the counter, for the quick, salt-sharp dinner. Low Room is for the Tuesday we are tired and want a roast chicken and a glass of something honest.
We are not a chain. We are a small group of people who cook, who happen to own four rooms together.