The House
A chandlery that started cooking
The building sold rope, lamp oil and chart paper to the fleet for longer than it has sold dinner. In 1974 the shelves came out and a stove went in. The compass rose set into the floor was too beautiful to lift, so it stayed, and in the end the house took its name from it.
Two rooms. One kitchen. Twenty-four seats, turned twice a night, and a menu that is only ever as good as what came off the water that morning.
14 Jetty Lane — the same doorway the chandlery used, one step up off the cobbles.
One kitchen, no second opinion
Everything leaves through one pass, under one light, watched by the whole room. It is an uncomfortable way to cook and it is the reason the food is honest. There is nowhere to send a plate you are not proud of.
The lemon comes off the tree by the back door. The salt is dried from the jetty. The brown butter is not negotiable.
The room is small on purpose.
We were offered the room next door twice. Twenty-four seats is the number one kitchen can cook for without lying to anybody.
What to expect when you sit down
Bread first, always
Cultured butter, sea salt off the jetty, sourdough pulled at four. It arrives before you have decided anything.
Whatever the boats brought
The board is written in the afternoon. If it was not landed that morning it does not go on.
Every table sees the pass
There is no back of house to hide in. You watch your plate leave the light and come to you.
The compass underfoot
Laid when the room sold rope and lamp oil. We resisted every contractor who offered to lift it.
We turn the room twice
An early sitting and a late one, Tuesday through Sunday. Nobody is moved on. If you take the late table the room is yours until the chairs go up, and most weeks that is later than we intend.
Weekends fill first, usually a fortnight out. Mondays the house is dark and the floor gets waxed.
Book the room
Twenty-four seats, turned twice a night. The house answers day and night — leave the evening you want and we will call you back.