In the fickle world of restaurants, sticking to a vision takes guts It is nearly 30 years since St John opened in a former smokehouse, just to the north of the City of London.
Seeking the garden, she limped around the ruins, by the trampled rose beds the Wilkes girls had tended so zealously, across the back yard and through the ashes to the smokehouse, barns and chicken houses.
And then we either barbecue the salmon fresh on sticks over coals which is how our ancestors did it, or we strip it up and put it in the smokehouse to smoke it for over the winter.
One of the village inhabitants had shot a bear along the Ocklawaha River a few days before and an enormous roast had been hung in the smokehouse just long enough to be tendered and aged in time for the church dinner.