The willows were whistling when we arrived, their spindly fingers combing the cool ocean air as it drifted up the mountain and settled into a gauzy mist. We sat quietly beneath them, dipping golden breadfruit chips into ceramic bowls of emerald chimichurri and a scotch bonnet sauce perfumed with coconut oil, garlic and ginger. Hummingbirds hovered at a nearby banana blossom, as if they, too, had reservations for lunch.
“Would you like more?” Lisa asked, glancing at the crumbs left in our shared bowls.
We were tempted. We declined. The feast, we sensed, had only just begun.
We could have been anywhere — suspended between trees and hills, wrapped in a blanket of cloud. That was part of the magic. Somewhere between the cruise-ship hum of Montego Bay and the resort gloss of Ocho Rios, in a rural enclave called Free Hill, we had found something quieter. More rooted.
Free Hill is home to roughly 300 residents and to Stush in the Bush, a tasting restaurant set within Zionites Farm, the 15-acre regenerative property run by Lisa and Christopher Binns. Visitors come for the vegan, farm-to-table meals; many leave with jars of the couple’s bottled sauces and preserves tucked under their arms.
We came for a day — for a meal grown from the soil beneath our feet, and for a glimpse of Jamaica beyond its postcard edges.
Christopher greeted us in his well-worn Pajero and drove us to the top of Free Hill before lunch, where the island revealed itself in sweeping layers of green and blue. From that vantage point, he pointed out landmarks in the distance: Dunn’s River Falls shimmering toward the coast, Nine Mile — the birthplace of Bob Marley — tucked into the folds of the hills.
Ten minutes later, we were rattling down a rocky dirt road toward the restaurant. From the outside, Stush in the Bush resembles a rustic chalet with a touch of safari lodge romance: wood, pitched rooflines, an ease with the landscape. Lisa welcomed us with a warmth that blurred the line between guest and family. We were, after all, standing in her home.
Lisa, a Barbadian raised in the United States, met Christopher — who was born in Free Hill and later studied in Canada — while vacationing in Jamaica. They fell in love, married, and returned to Christopher’s hometown, where they built both a life and a farm. Lisa oversees the kitchen and product line; Christopher tends the land and manages deliveries. It is a partnership rooted in soil and intention.
Inside, the small room held a bed, a long wooden table and a kitchen alive with color — heaps of just-harvested greens, bowls of fruit, well-used pots and pans. The air smelled faintly of ginger and woodsmoke. My stomach answered.
We chose to sit outside. At nearly 2,000 feet above sea level, Free Hill can feel brisk by Jamaican standards, but the view — layered hills dissolving into mist — was irresistible.
Lunch began with warm lemongrass and ginger tea and a return to those breadfruit chips, their crisp sweetness offset by chimichurri and the fiery scotch bonnet dip Lisa calls Blow Fyah. The flavors were vivid, unapologetic — the kind that only come from ingredients harvested minutes before they meet the plate.
A salad followed: watermelon radish, blushing pink against fennel and arugula, crunchy and bright, a palate reset before the main event.
Then came the pizzas — vegan, fire-grilled, and unexpectedly indulgent. The first arrived crowned with homemade tomato sauce, basil pesto and walnut crumbles, the cornmeal-laced crust lending each bite a gentle sweetness and crackle. When Lisa sliced into it, molten vegan cheese and olive oil slipped toward the plate. The second pie balanced sweet and savory: pineapple and caramelized shallots atop tomato sauce and cheese. The tang of fruit against buttery shallot was revelatory — a reminder that playfulness belongs at the table.
By the time dessert appeared, we protested weakly. “There’s no way,” we insisted.
There was, of course.
Two slices of dense vegan chocolate cake arrived adorned with sorrel preserve, banana preserve, passion fruit butter and a chewy ginger cookie. We fell silent, dragging forkfuls of cake through jeweled streaks of fruit. It felt ceremonial.
To atone, we walked.
Christopher was out making deliveries, so Lisa guided us through the farm herself. We wandered along “Love Lane,” a sloping path shaded by willows and flanked by fruit trees — banana, mango, mulberry — before reaching rows of raised beds brimming with arugula, tatsoi, kale, cilantro, watermelon radish, basil, parsley and edible flowers. Nearly everything we had eaten had grown within view of the table.
Open clearings punctuate the property, used for yoga sessions, community events and educational programs. Last summer, the couple hosted a camp for local schoolchildren, funded by the Peace Corps, with workshops in literacy, cooking and environmental stewardship. “The theme was based on ‘The Lorax,’” Lisa told us. “We divided them into Bar-ba-loots, Humming-fish and Swomee-Swans. They had an amazing time.”
At one of the highest points on the farm stands the skeletal frame of an old greenhouse, its view perhaps the finest on the property. The Binnses hope it may one day become their first guesthouse.
Back at the restaurant, we gathered our things — and a few jars: chimichurri, Blow Fyah, Tomato Sweetie Cherry Marmalade. Christopher returned just in time to say goodbye.
Before leaving, I pulled one jar from the bag and studied its label, searching for the secret behind the meal we had just experienced. And there it was, the very first ingredient: “Love and affection”.
This post was first published in February, 2020.
