If you walk down Calloway Row a little after four, you will smell it before you see the door. That is the bread. It goes into the hearth at the same time every afternoon, and the reason is the fire, not the clock.
The quiet hour
The fire is lit early and fed through the day. By four it has burned down to a deep bed of oak coals. There is no flame to speak of and very little smoke. The stone around it has been soaking up heat since morning and gives it back slowly and evenly.
That is the fire at its quietest, and it is the only hour that suits bread. A loaf wants steady heat from every side and nothing licking at it. An hour earlier the hearth is too lively and the crust burns before the middle sets. An hour later we are building the fire up again for dinner and there is no room.
So the bread gets the gap between the two. Our baker calls it borrowing the fire.
What comes out
One kind of loaf. It is round and dark, with a thick crust that crackles for a few minutes after it leaves the hearth. The crumb is open and a little sour. It carries a trace of smoke, less than you might expect.
It rests until service. Bread cut hot is a waste of bread. By the time the first tables sit down at half past five it is ready, and it comes to you with butter and not much else.
Why we bake only once
We could bake more. We would need a second oven, and then it would be a different bread. This one tastes of the fire it shared with your dinner, and that fire has one quiet hour a day.
When the loaves are gone, they are gone. Late tables on a busy Saturday sometimes miss out, and we are sorry about that every time.
A few mornings a year we light the fire just for bread and invite a small group in to bake with us. Those mornings are listed under Evenings, which is an odd place for them, we know.