There is a number beyond which a dinner becomes an event. We are interested in dinners.
The mathematics are simple but consequential. At twelve guests, conversation remains singular—one table, one discussion, occasional tributaries that return to the main stream. At twenty-four, you have created two dinners happening in the same room. At forty, you have a function.
We will rarely exceed twenty-four. When we do, it will be because a space demands it—a long table that seats thirty, a chef whose cuisine requires communal service at scale. These will be exceptions, noted as such.
Intimacy is not a marketing position. It is a constraint that shapes every decision downstream. It determines which chefs are possible (those accustomed to plating for two hundred will not always translate). It determines which spaces work (a restaurant dining room, no matter how beautiful, rarely provides what we require). It determines price (fewer guests means higher cost per seat, a filter that is both regrettable and functional).
We are building for the conversation that happens after the third course, when strangers have become temporary intimates. That requires containment.