Everything we cook, and when

Baked twice a day from flour ground thirty miles away. The butter is churned here on Tuesdays.

Hand-dived off Westray, grilled hard in its own shell with cayenne butter and a squeeze of lemon. Two minutes from cold store to table.

Roasted in salt until it collapses, then dressed while still warm. The roe is smoked over oak in the yard.

Choux, baked to order, filled with a cheese that is different every month because the field is.

An unfashionable fish that the boats land whether we order it or not, and which is better than most of what we do order.

A whole celeriac in the embers for four hours, carved at the pass. Tastes more of meat than most meat does.

Chopped by hand to order from a five-week rump. The oyster goes through the dressing, not on top of it.

Bitter, sweet, salt, and something to chew. The pears are the last of the Vale of Pewsey ones.

Steamed in a dry Herefordshire cider with a great deal of butter. Bread comes with it, because otherwise what is the point.

Whole, over charcoal, forty minutes. Carved at the table with the mussel butter poured over. The best thing we cook.

Longhorn, four years old, hung five weeks, cooked over wood. We buy a side at a time so the cut moves through the month.

Older than lamb and much the better for it. Shoulder slow, loin fast, both on the plate.

A crown prince from the four acres, baked whole and filled with cracked wheat, brown butter and a great deal of sage.

On the bone, butter, lemon, and the small brown shrimp that are worth the trouble of peeling.

Cooked in the fat that came off the Longhorn. Not negotiable.

Whatever came up this week, hot pan, thirty seconds.

Leaves cut that morning, dressed with cider vinegar and nothing clever.

Oakley wheat, cracked and cooked like a risotto, finished with everything green in the kitchen.

A single wedge at the temperature it should be, with an oatcake. Ask how the herd is eating.

Cut to order at the counter. The list is on the board and it changes when a wheel is finished.

Poached slowly in its own syrup until it goes the colour it is famous for going.

One tart, made at four, sold until it is gone. Usually by nine.

Churned to order for eight people at a time from fruit picked in a lane outside Pewsey in September.

Three ingredients and a spoon. The only pudding that has never come off.

Whatever Ruth sent too much of, which in October means squash and in June means peas.

Smoked in the yard on Tuesday, eaten by Saturday.

Yesterday’s shoulder, crumbed this morning. The most honest thing on the menu.

Off the bone at lunch, on it at dinner. Same fish, less ceremony.

The dinner dish at lunch size, which several people have told us is the right size.

The cut that rewards a sharp knife and a short rest. Medium rare or not at all.

The dinner pudding, smaller, because it is one o’clock.

One cut, one oatcake, one glass of something brown if you are not driving.

One, cold, to start everyone at the same moment.

The same one we serve at the counter, because it is right.

Both spreads. People always ask for both.

Carved in front of you, which takes longer than it needs to and is worth it.

The unfashionable fish, given the treatment it has always deserved.

Two mouthfuls of the best part of the fish.

Whatever the side is giving us that week. In February it was shin and nobody complained.

Cheese before pudding, as it should be.

Picked in a lane outside Pewsey in September and frozen for exactly this.

Three is a snack. Six is a decision.

The counter version, eaten standing up with a glass of manzanilla.

Fried in the morning. Free if you are waiting for a table and we have kept you.

Two to an order. Hot, or we have not done our job.

The side dish, relocated to the bar, where it belongs.

Oakley bread, too much cheese, cooked in a press until it is structurally unsound.

A tin, opened at the counter, with good bread. We are not going to pretend we cooked it.

A saucer of them and a cocktail stick. Under a pound a mouthful and worth four.

The end of the bread and the bottom of the roasting tray. Nothing is wasted here and this is the proof.

Six weeks a year and not a day longer. Back in late April.

Picked from one wood we are not going to name. March and April only.

August and the first week of September. There is no version of this in February that is worth eating.

Podded in the dining room before service by whoever is early.

Six weeks in June and July, and then not again.

Grown in the dark in a shed in Wakefield, which is one of the few genuinely magical things left in British food. January to March.