Burr & Peel

We roast light. Short development, origin character kept intact, nothing pushed into caramel. Green beans come through the alley door; the drum runs most mornings behind glass, so you can watch your bag being made while you drink the last one.

Everything is ground to order on the bar. Retail bags carry the roast date, not a best-before — if it's older than three weeks we've already pulled it.

The dough is sourdough, started in-house and fermented seventy-two hours cold. That's not a flourish — it's why the crust tastes of something on its own and why it sits lighter than it looks.

No dining room at night. Pizza goes out the side door on Fullerton in a box, and there's a bench if you can't wait until you're home. We stop when the dough is gone, which some nights is early.

A two-storey brick building on the Fullerton corridor with its original façade still on the front. Exposed brick, tin ceilings, and a vintage storefront that we have no intention of improving.

The garage behind became the roastery — eleven feet of clear height and three-phase power, which is the whole reason we're on this block and not another one. The lower level, with its own entrance, is where the dough lives.