Our tandoor is fired every morning before the sun clears the rooftops of Irving. By the time the first guest arrives, the clay walls are pulsing with heat — the kind that sears a marinated cut of chicken in ninety seconds and leaves the inside impossibly tender.
There is no thermostat, no timer, no shortcut. The chef reads the fire the way a musician reads a room. A little wrist movement to keep the naan from puffing too fast. A skewer rotated at exactly the right beat so the kebab crisps without drying.
This is the oldest cooking method we know. It is also the one that most rewards care.
