Twenty-four covers, twice

Twenty-four covers at seven and twenty-four at nine thirty, which is the most the room will take and the most the kitchen will do without something being lost.

We are asked fairly often why we do not add a third service, or put four more seats in a room that could physically hold them. The answer is that the last course of the second service is cooked by the same four people who cooked the first course of the first, six hours earlier, and that after twenty-four plates twice there is a measurable falling-off that guests would not necessarily identify but would certainly feel.

A full double is a specific kind of evening. The kitchen runs almost silently — a full section talks less, not more — and the pass develops a rhythm that Théo conducts with about eleven words. Front of house absorbs everything else: the table that arrives forty minutes late, the guest who does not eat dairy and did not say so, the bottle that is corked and must be replaced without ceremony.

It went out clean. One dish returned, a pigeon sent back for another minute, which is a fair rate over forty-eight.

The staff ate at half past midnight, which is when the good part happens. Théo cooked eggs. Everyone had opinions about the pigeon.