The kitchen is small and everything passes through it: the hollandaise, the potato hash, the pastry, the scones, the preserves. That limits how many covers we can do at once — which is the trade-off we chose. It also means the person who made your plate is a few metres away, and hears it when something is right or wrong.
Eggs are free-run and delivered several times a week. Produce comes from suppliers we have used since the first year, and the list on the specials board follows whatever they bring rather than the other way round. Coffee is roasted locally and dialled in every morning; tea is loose-leaf, never bagged.
Forty-odd seats, a long table at the back for groups, and a patio that opens the moment the weather allows. Sunday mornings are loud and full, weekday mornings are calm enough to work through a second coffee. Both are deliberate — a dining room should be able to do more than one thing.
Most of the people you will meet have been here for years: the same faces in the kitchen, the same servers who remember how you take your eggs. That continuity is the single biggest reason the food is consistent, and we do everything we can to keep it.