This is a hero section
Nine rooms, one table, and a standard of service that has never been advertised. Open by reservation to those who have heard of us.
Kept, rather than run.
The house was built in 1904 for a family who intended to live in it, and it has never entirely stopped feeling that way. There is no lobby. There is a hall, with a fire in it from October.
We keep nine rooms because ten would mean a second sitting at dinner, and the table is the point. Everything else — the garden, the cellar, the twelve hectares behind — exists to serve it.
Three things, kept exceptionally.
We have declined every opportunity to become a resort. What remains is what we believe we can do better than anyone within three hundred kilometres.
The rooms
Nine, each different, none numbered. Linen from Beauvillé, no television, and a window that opens onto something worth opening it for.
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The spa
Two treatment rooms and a hammam cut into the original cellar. Booked by the half day, never shared.
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The grounds
Twelve hectares, a kitchen garden that supplies the table, and a pool that is heated from April.
DiscoverOne sitting. One menu. No choices.
Dinner is served at eight, at a single table of twenty-four, and there is nothing to choose from. What arrives is what the garden and the morning market made possible, cooked by people who found out at eleven what they were doing.
It is the most demanding way to run a kitchen and the only one that produces a meal nobody at the table could have ordered.
Reserve the tableIn photographs.
Taken over four seasons by the same photographer, with nothing styled that was not already there.
What guests say afterwards.
Notes from the house.
Written by whoever had something worth saying, published when it was finished rather than on a schedule.
We keep two rooms unbooked.
Always. For the guests who decide late, and for the ones we would rather not turn away. Write to us and we will tell you honestly what is possible.