Cedar Plank Steelhead
Set on a soaked cedar board at the mouth of the oven, basted in brown butter until the edges take color. Shaved fennel, a lemon half left on the coals too long on purpose, a spoon of the pan.
Since the first cold spring
Everything here passes through fire, and almost everything comes from within a day's drive.
Sablefir began as a Sunday habit. A borrowed hearth, a short list of neighbors, and whatever the valley had given up that week. The habit outgrew the house, so we found a room off Larkspur Row with a chimney worth rebuilding, and we rebuilt it.
The kitchen runs on a single oak fire from four in the afternoon until the last plate leaves. There is no gas line to hide behind. What that means, practically, is that the menu moves. Squash gives way to ramps, steelhead gives way to whatever the river allows, and the board is rewritten by hand more often than we would like to admit.
We keep the room dim, the tables uncrowded, and the pours honest. Come hungry and stay a while.
