A garden.
A salon.
One sunset.

Round tables under a canopy of palms, banana leaves, and bougainvillea. Terracotta pots of basil, rosemary, mint, lemongrass, Thai chili along every edge — Chef Anto walks over mid-service, clips a sprig, finishes the dish at your table.

Raised beds of edible flowers — nasturtium, borage, marigold — the same ones that arrive on your plate an hour later. A mango tree in the middle. When the fruit drops in season, it becomes dessert.

String lights above. Beeswax candles in hurricane glass below. No electric light after sunset. Crushed shell and limestone underfoot, never concrete.

A small lounge by the door where every guest begins. Low canapele, a single bottle of something cold, a plate of olives and house bread.

You arrive a stranger. You leave the aperitif room already part of the evening.