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In Bruton, supper can feel like theatre. Not the velvet-curtained kind, but something smaller, more personal. Step through the door of Matt’s Kitchen and you enter the downstairs of a Georgian home, painted in deep blue and lit by the hum of conversation. The chef is also the host, the waiter, the storyteller. His name is Matt Watson, a self-taught cook who has turned a domestic oven into the most talked-about dining room in town.
For fifteen years Matt has held his ground while the culinary tide of Bruton swelled around him. Osip earned its Michelin star, Briar became the darling of critics, At the Chapel kept the sourdough fires burning, yet Matt’s Kitchen has stayed resolutely itself. There is one menu each month, five courses, no choices, no substitutions. You bring your own bottle, you sit elbow to elbow with strangers, and you let the dishes arrive as they are conjured from that tiny kitchen.
The food is seasonal and ever-shifting. A whipped feta with chorizo might be followed by pork in sherry and tarragon, or a fig semifreddo chasing a treacle sponge. It is unfussy, playful, and entirely shaped by Matt’s instinct for flavour. He chalks the courses on the board, introduces each dish himself, and keeps the rhythm flowing like a one-man orchestra.
The room holds just twenty-two, yet it feels bigger than any restaurant built with steel and glass. There is warmth in the way it folds strangers together, theatre in the ritual of unveiling the menu, generosity in the simplicity of its BYO spirit. Even the local community is part of the story, with Matt quietly giving away frozen meals from his surplus to anyone in Bruton who needs them.
Matt’s Kitchen is not polished hospitality, nor does it want to be. It is a dining room that knows its part, plays it well, and leaves its audience wanting more. In a town now crowded with culinary stars, Matt remains the original quiet act — intimate, unpretentious, and still the place everyone whispers about when the lights go down.