Warm hearth bread & cultured butter
Sourdough baked in the dying embers, our own cultured butter, and last summer's preserves still holding the sun.
A seasonal tasting menu grown within ten miles and cooked entirely over open flame — in a converted granary, by candlelight.
We don't write the menu — the fields do. We simply cook whatever they give us, over fire, the way it has been done for a thousand years.
Ninety per cent of what reaches your table is grown, foraged or reared within ten miles of this room. The other ten is salt, and patience.
One hearth. No gas, no electricity at the pass. Only embers, smoke, and the slow attention that open flame demands of you.
Trim becomes stock. Peel becomes oil. Bone becomes broth. We use the whole of every living thing we are given — it is the least we owe it.
Sorrel lives in an eighteenth-century stone granary at the edge of the valley. We took out very little and added almost nothing — the building was already beautiful.
There is one long oak table by the hearth for those who like company, and a handful of quiet corners for those who don't. Dinner is a single sitting, and it is unhurried.
The hearth
The long table
The cellar
Trained over fire in the Basque country, then came home to cook the valley he grew up in. Builds the menu each morning around whatever the garden surrenders.

Runs the kitchen garden and the foraging lines. If it is on your plate, she very likely pulled it from the ground or the hedge that same day.

Keeps the hearth alive from noon and turns its embers into the last, quietest courses of the night. Believes smoke is a seasoning like any other.
“You don’t dine at Sorrel so much as attend it — an evening of fire, fields and quiet ceremony you’ll be telling people about for months.”
Tables are released six weeks ahead and go quickly. Tell us when you'd like to come and we'll confirm by email within the day.