Hofmann

My one grumble came early: we stood at the door slightly too long while the front of house finished a handover, nobody quite claiming us. It was the only loose stitch of the evening. Once seated, the first ten minutes told me most of what I needed: bread at the right temperature, butter no afterthought, an opening plate finished with the kind of pastry-room precision that betrays a house built on training. Coming from that world myself, I notice the finishing first, and here it never wavers. The cooking is creative without straining for it, classically anchored, reliably well seasoned; the odd course plays it safe, though the craft never lapses. A table built for occasions, and mine seem to come round every few months.