Twenty-four hours in our kitchen.

The kitchen door opens at 7am. The first thing in is the fish — boxes of yellowtail, salmon, sea bream, and whatever else the supplier has flagged that morning. Our sushi master and one of the chefs work through it together, checking eyes, gills, flesh. Anything that doesn't pass goes back. This is twenty minutes that decides what we'll be cutting at lunchtime.

By 8am the stocks are on. Dashi from kombu and bonito takes thirty minutes to extract gently — boil it and it goes bitter. The miso for the black cod cure is mixed in batches every three days, and Tuesday morning is when this week's batch goes on the cod that will land Friday night.

Mise en place runs through the morning. Tempura batter is mixed twice, the second batch held under ice. The robata is lit by 11.30am — binchotan takes forty-five minutes to come up to temperature, and we want it ready, not rushing.

Lunch service on Saturday and Sunday opens at noon. The bar is unlocked. The first reservations land at 12.15. The dining room hums for three hours, the bar for four. There's a turnaround between lunch and dinner where the kitchen resets, the floor team eats, and the head chef walks the room.

Dinner service runs differently every night of the week. Wednesdays are quieter and slower-paced — that's when we run the chef's-table omakase. Thursdays start to fill the bar. Fridays and Saturdays, the door doesn't really stop until 9.45pm, when the kitchen takes the last food order. The bar will keep going for another half-hour.

The clean-down is the part nobody sees. Two hours after the last guest leaves: surfaces, walk-in fridges, knife blocks, the robata raked, the sushi case stripped. By 12.30am the lights are off. The next morning the door opens again at 7am, and another box of fish comes in.