bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1988) — Winter 1988 // Hiver 1988, p. 15
Kiny’Ole is a slinky sand dune separated from the mangrove swamp by an opportunistic sea channel. To rename it Robinson’s Island requires considerable idealistic optimism. To establish a four star restaurant miles over rutted dirt road in the back of beyond of a little third world nation on this same shifting sandpile takes colossal chutzpah. Not only did patrons have to arrive by Landrover, or light plane, and boat, they had to hot foot it over burning sand and sit on wooden stools at rough slab tables under a flapping thatch roof.
Inconspicuous to the point of invisibility, one could have passed within one hundred feet of the entire establishment — restaurant, gardens, parking lot, kitchens, landing strip and all — without seeing it. No road signs pointed the way. No map carried the location. Slumping casually into shifting sand the wood and thatch structure could easily have been the abandoned retreat of Defoe’s hero.
To get the maître d’s attention, one parked on the opposite bank, clanged an old ship’s bell and waited for the punt to be poled across. But once there, sheltered from the unceasing wind and scouring sand by a wall of woven palm fronds, guests could gorge and feast and stuff until they could scarcely stagger to the string cots provided for their recovery.
Its founder, owner, manager, architect and chief cook was an eccentric remnant of the colonial period named David Hurd. Taking time out of a checkered career as a latter-day Dennis Finch-Hatton, he had engineered Robinson’s Island as a unique experiment in total harmony between enterprise and environment.
Tables, stools, cots, roof and walls, all were hand-crafted from local trees and vines; plates and bowls of wood, cups of coconut shell, decorations of coral and shell were free for the making. No electricity. No plumbing. Nothing imported or purchased except a small selection of luxury liquor and fresh water, a gas fridge to keep the ice intact and a boat to reach the treasures of the coral reef.
Not only the building but the food it served came from the immediate environment. Everything on the menu either grew on the island or lived in the waters around it. The array and abundance of courses depended entirely on the results of the fisherman’s morning catch and the state of the melon patch. Augmented with the versatile coconut, these sources never failed to provide a five-course meal of exquisite delicacy and infinite variety.
For nibbles with a pre-dinner Glenlivet or Heineken there were deep-fried coconut or banana chips; for appetizers one feasted on raw or grilled rock oysters with grated coconut and garlic followed by steamed lobster or crab. Mullet, rubbed with spice and grilled over an open fire, might have made the main course. If one were still hungry a yam curry was guaranteed to fill the empty spaces. For dessert there was vine-ripened melon with lime and hot, strong Arabica coffee sweetened with coconut milk. A dark roasted coffee bean held lightly between the teeth during sips of cognac added an exotic pungency to an indulgent end to an indulgent meal.
Impeccably fresh seafood, slow-simmered curry, sun-hot melon served in a setting of wild beauty or an uninhabited tropical beach — no black tie extravaganza nor haute cuisine restaurant will ever surpass the sensual pleasures of dinner at Robinson’s Island.
I would go back if I could, but I can’t. It’s no longer there.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 5, No. 4 (1988) — Winter 1988 // Hiver 1988, p. 15. Read the rest of this issue →
