The fire does not start when the doors open. It starts the night before.
Holm oak burns slowly. It has to. We light it hours ahead and let it fall — from flame to ember, from noise to heat. By the time the first cut reaches the grill, there is no fire left to see. Only coals, and the heat they hold.
This is the part no one watches. There is no technique to photograph, no plate to name. Just wood, time, and someone tending it. But it is where the meat is decided. A ribeye over young flame tastes of smoke and hurry. The same cut over settled embers tastes of the oak itself.
We do not rush this. We never have.
Fire, wine, and meat. The rest is superfluous.
