We light one fire at the start of service and we do not light another. It burns low and patient through the whole evening, and as the night runs on it slowly loses its strength. The cooking changes with it, so the last act of dinner tastes nothing like the first.
Early in the night the embers are fierce and we work fast, searing and charring while the heat is high. By the middle of service the fire has settled into a deep, even glow, ideal for the long, slow cooking of duck and rice. By the close there is little more than warmth, enough to gentle a cream or to toast a single twig of tea.
Cooking on a falling fire means you can never quite repeat yourself. The same dish made at seven and at ten is two different things. We have come to love this. It keeps the kitchen awake, and it means every table is cooked for at exactly the moment they are sitting in.
Narisawa
