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Hainan is a small tropical island in the South China Sea, relatively untouched despite its immense tourist-trap potential. It’s also the childhood home of my father-in-law. One visit, when he told us we were on our way to the best restaurant on the whole island, there was no question the food would be superb, but I was a bit worried. My generation has come to expect “best restaurant” to mean five star decor, artistic plating, astronomical prices, and Google-perfect reviews. Not to mention a strict dress code. At that moment, the five of us (me, my husband Jim, his dad, and his two uncles) were wearing grungy travel clothes stained with the exertions of a day’s adventures. We were very under-dressed. Our minivan bumped along a narrow dirt road and stopped in front of a rectangular cement hut. Palm trees grew through the tire-covered roof and there were no doors or windows. A well-fed man in a baggy golf shirt and khaki shorts ushered us inside, past a wood burning stove and colanders of fresh-picked vegetables, over to a charcoal-stained corner. Round plastic tubs sat on the floor in cheery colors of red and orange. Swimming inside was the morning’s catch. Jim and I were shooed outdoors, leaving his father and uncles to the serious task of ordering. Across the yard on a cement patio was our table topped with rice bowls, chopsticks, tea cups, and little dishes piled with fresh minced garlic, sliced red chilies, and round little limes. We sat in mismatched folding chairs looking out at the dock and palm-fringed inlet. Old paint-splintered fishing boats bobbed to each other, the gossamer tangle of fishing nets drying on open decks, the sound of water slapping between them. Jim’s dad and uncles soon joined us, chattering in Cantonese about the upcoming meal. The vague English translations were “crab”, “fish”, “good stuff”. Words that didn’t prepare me for what actually landed, hot and steaming, on our table. A rock crab arrived, its meteor-grey shell covered in ginger and scallions with soft juicy meat inside. Another crab had a pink shell with seven cranberry-sized dots (“stars”, I was told). Next, a sea anemone. Sharp purple spines outside, a creamy yolk inside. And finally, a fish, the freshest I’ve ever tasted, with bones as blue as the sea. This restaurant will probably never exist online, but maybe that’s okay because it would far exceed five stars. Maybe seven would be enough. Seven crab stars, to be exact. Black tie, optional.