There’s a particular kind of jetlag that hits differently when you’ve spent the morning battling the Northern Line and the afternoon watching turquoise water lap against powder-white sand. It’s the sort of disorientation that makes you question whether your London life is the dream or the reality.
I found myself nursing this pleasant confusion at The Larry Rogers, perched on Mullins Bay’s platinum coast, where the Caribbean does what it does best: makes you forget you ever owned an umbrella.
The place doesn’t announce itself with the usual resort fanfare. No marble fountains or uniformed greeters wielding frozen towels. Instead, you meander down to the beach club through bougainvillea that refuses to behave itself, spilling cerise blooms across whitewashed walls with abandon. The atmosphere lands somewhere between barefoot elegance and “yes, you can absolutely have another rum punch before noon.”
What struck me first wasn’t the view—though the bay stretches out like liquid gemstones—but the sound. Steel drums drifted from somewhere unseen, mixing with laughter and the rhythmic shush of waves. It’s the audio equivalent of exhaling properly for the first time in months.
The menu arrives, and here’s where things get interesting. Caribbean cuisine often gets pigeonholed: jerk this, fried that, maybe some curry goat if we’re feeling adventurous. The Larry Rogers takes a different tack entirely. Executive Chef Nicole has clearly spent time thinking about what it means to eat well in the tropics, and her answer involves local fishermen, heritage recipes, and the kind of technical skill that doesn’t feel the need to show off.
I started with the tuna tartare because I’m predictable that way. What arrived was anything but. The fish had been caught that morning—the server wasn’t being poetic, you could taste it—dressed with Bajan scotch bonnet that had been tamed just enough to let the citrus shine through. Plantain crisps provided the crunch, thin as parchment and dangerously addictive. It’s the sort of dish that makes you realize how tired you are of European restaurants putting “tropical” in front of everything while delivering the same six ingredients.
My companion—a photographer with opinions about natural light and whether breadfruit counts as a proper vegetable—went for the catch of the day. The mahi-mahi arrived in a coconut broth that managed to be both rich and light, dotted with callaloo and sweet potato that had been roasted until the edges caramelized. She photographed it extensively, then ate it too quickly to be dignified.
Between courses, we watched families settle into cabanas, watched couples share lobster, watched solo travelers work through paperbacks with their toes in the sand. The service moved at island pace—which is to say, attentive without being intrusive, there when you needed something and invisible when you didn’t.
The wine list deserves mention, if only because it features bottles you’d expect to find in Mayfair rather than on a beach in Barbados. Someone has clearly been having fun with the procurement. I opted for a South African chenin blanc that cut through the humidity like a particularly well-aimed fan.
For mains, I committed to the grilled red snapper. It came whole, which always feels like a small act of bravery, seasoned with herbs I couldn’t quite place but suspect involved someone’s grandmother’s approval. The flesh flaked at the gentlest prod, and the accompanying rice and peas had that elusive quality of tasting exactly like the version you remember, even if you’ve never had it before.
Dessert was a rum cake soaked in enough Mount Gay to make the walk back uphill feel philosophical. Served with passionfruit curd and a quenelle of coconut ice cream, it struck the perfect balance between indulgent and not-so-heavy-you-need-a-nap.
What The Larry Rogers understands—what makes it worth mentioning to fellow Londoners planning their escape—is that beach dining doesn’t have to mean compromise. You can have your infinity pool views and proper technique too. You can drink well, eat thoughtfully, and still leave with sand between your toes.
As the sun began its descent, painting the bay in shades of amber and rose that would make a sunset Instagram influencer weep, I found myself doing the math. Flight time versus dining quality versus the memory of grey February skies back home.
The jetlag, I decided, was worth it. The Larry Rogers at Mullins Bay isn’t trying to be London-by-the-sea. It’s something better: utterly, unapologetically itself, serving food that honors its place while refusing to be limited by it.
Sometimes you need to travel 4,200 miles to remember what it feels like to eat somewhere that isn’t performing for you. This is that place.