Sam Buckley is the chef and owner at Where The Light Gets In, a Green Michelin-starred restaurant. We’re on the top of Stockport’s Merseyway shopping center. The view includes the Peak District and the red-bricked viaduct. The Peaks are like the bookends to a hyper-industrial era, while the latter are reminiscent of something more ancient and comforting.

But we aren’t here for the views, but to harvest fresh vegetables. It seems fitting that the rooftop car park houses a vibrant community kitchen garden, given the stunning views. The Landing, which was created to supply Where The Light Gets In, lacks exclusivity compared to other kitchen gardens. This is partly due to its location but also because it’s a community-driven initiative.

The words seasonality and locality have become commonplace in a food culture which is increasingly trying to be sustainable. However, with the recent climate and world events, they aren’t enough. Sam describes his food philosophy as “responsive and somewhere beyond seasonal.” This means that he adapts to the contours of the land, not making it fit an agenda.

Five minutes walk from the parking lot is Where The Light Gets In. It was opened in Sam’s hometown of Stockport six years ago in a Victorian warehouse. The space is simple and light-filled, with only windows and brick. The light bounces off the Ercol chairs.

Sam’s philosophy of responsiveness is the foundation for his restaurant. The menu is not set, but instead a way to make food using what’s available. It could be mackerel caught in Cornwall (as opposed to Morecambe, where boats are fishing and dredging can be as far as Iceland), combining ingredients that have been grown or foraged. This is a library of British produce, which has been infused with flavors using ancient and innovative methods. From squash leaves to cornhusks, nothing goes to waste.

Sam, despite his good intentions, is aware that the work he and the team at the restaurant do is not yet accessible to all. This is addressed by using the spaces to focus the attention of the community. The space is home to a number of residencies that explore the intersections between art and ecology. Sam and Joe Hartley, along with baker Rosie Wilkes and potter Rosie Wilkes, opened Yellowhammer earlier this year. Yellowhammer is a pottery and bakery that supplies both the restaurant as well as the wider community.

Sam’s background includes an art college degree, a journalism degree, and a musical break from his culinary career in order to tour Europe. It feels cheap to call him a chef. His response to the spaces has become a beacon of inspiration for other artists. It could be an Ikebana expert sharing their knowledge or a mushroom farmer taking up residence in the basement of a restaurant. Sam is an incredible chef but has a real talent for bringing people together.

Sam admits that a Green Michelin Star is an acknowledgment of the restaurant’s effort, but he also recognizes “misgivings about being elite” – this warmth can be seen in the food writers Patience Grey and Jane Grigson, who are some of Sam’s influences. He says that the restaurant’s approach to food and preparation is characterized by “incredible warmth and luxury.” This generosity and luxury are hard to replicate in a commercial setting.

Gray’s comprehensive and forward-thinking Honey from a Weedproposes that hospitality is determining “exactly what your guests want.” Sam develops this idea by using a restaurant as an illustration of how the hospitality industry can be remodeled to one which values mental and bodily health. He explains that “the people who cook the meal and the team are more important than guests, their happiness rubs on.” It is novel to see the nurturing alchemical aspect of cooking outside of the home. He says he is happiest “looking at the whole team doing their work.”

We are in the early days of autumn. The rain is only threatening, but the temperature has not yet dropped. Sam is cooking for us because the restaurant will be taking a break at the end of its season.

In his garden, the plants are not so much cultivated as left to grow at their own pace. In one corner, the wild rocket is colonizing the garden. It’s a happy home for various sorrels. Mustard leaves, yarrows, chards, and many other herbs are nestled amongst the rabble.

Cucamelons are also given a bowl. Pickled cherries, figs, and tomatoes are all left whole. The cheeses are placed on a board. The restaurant is known for its uncomplicated and well-treated cuisine. The thick cucumber rounds are dressed with a vibrant oregano-infused oil, which is cured and grated to resemble soft dried apricots. The molasses-colored and sweet fermented garlic, which is made in the compost, is served with purple beans and dressed in a XO sauce that’s made of mushrooms (umami for vegans) grown in the restaurant’s basement. Herbs are featured everywhere.

Salad is the last thing that needs to be put together. Sam returns from his edible wood with a large bowl filled with all kinds of leaves and herbs. I ask Sam how large the salad will be. We’re just three people. He replies, “I don’t know.” “As large as the garden will allow.” This seems to be the only reasonable answer.