The roving fire dinner.
No walls. One long table. Sixteen seats.
One long table. One fire built in the open. Sixteen seats, a single seating, no menu handed out. The courses arrive as the coal decides they are ready. You sit close enough to feel the heat.
Every dinner is numbered. A record of rooms that held the fire — and the next one, still warming.
A three-night residency in a cloud-forest greenhouse above the city. Andean tubers buried in coal, fog-cured lamb, the whole menu grown within a kilometre of the table. Deposits open to the list first. Join the list.
A guest-chef night paired pour-for-pour with single-village mezcal. Agave roasted in the same pit as the maguey it was poured beside. Sold out in nine hours.
Cooked inside a working coffee finca during harvest. Coffee-cherry vinegar, cacao-husk smoke, a fire fed with the prunings. Gatopardo sent a writer; the chapter became a feature.
Driftwood fire on black sand. Whole fish landed that morning, fermented chile from the village, plantain in the ash. No electricity, no second seating.
A colonial wine cellar stripped to brick and coal. Six courses built from the Sabana's highland produce. The first chapter to sell out before a single public announcement — list only.
