Everything else on the table is a fine thing that someone else does well. We do the salt.
Seawater, sun, and three days in a pan.Flake salt for the last ten seconds of cooking. Added by hand, in sight, so you know exactly how much. Nothing else in the tin.
Buy the tinThe water leaves. The salt stays and, left alone at the right heat, grows hollow four-sided crystals on the surface. We lift them off before they sink.
Salt in the pot dissolves and disappears. Salt on the plate stays a crystal until it meets your tongue. That's the difference, and it's the only thing we make.
A 250 g tin of flake sea salt. We're asked, most weeks, for a smoked one, a chilli one, a truffle one. No. If you want those, add them yourself; the salt will carry them.
Two thousand litres from the bay, at the top of the tide, when the water is cleanest. Filtered through sand, then cloth.
Heated to just below a simmer. Never boiled; boiling makes small dense grains. Slow heat makes big hollow ones.
Pyramids form on the surface. Someone stands at the pan and lifts them off with a rake before they get heavy and sink.
Overnight in a warm room, then into tins by hand. Weighed to the gram, dated, sealed. Sold within the month.
Steel tin, sealed, dated. About six months of finishing for a household that cooks.
Paper pouch for the tin you already own. Same batch, same date.
One for you, two for people who keep asking what you put on the eggs.
Posted the day after we tin it, which is the day after it comes out of the pan. If it's clumped when it arrives, it was a damp week; it's still salt.
Buy the tin