In spite of his lifestyle, Bruce was not a man for luxury. He lived it, and was accustomed to it, but he had been just as happy living a Spartan existence, and it was often remarked by those who knew him best that, left to his own devices, Bruce would likely just live in the Cave, surviving on nutrient supplements, or whatever survival skills he'd picked up as a young man. Including the fine art of sandwich making, to be fair.
He enjoyed a good steak (it was about the only thing he could actually cook) but it was rare that he could recommend food in earnest, outside of his role as Bruce Wayne. At this place, it was not just the food, but the simplicity. No frills, barely a roof over their heads, although one that would protect them from the elements. It was a bed to sleep in, the ocean, the sand, and the sky. While he was here, he needed nothing more. Perhaps it went without saying, that Bruce could never stay long without either wishing he had the luxury of staying forever, or getting too anxious to be back home. Or both.
Taking Dinah down the beach, he was not surprised to be recognized, even though it had been almost a year since he'd been here last, stopping in momentarily to recover after an overseas case. They were given the table of honor, on the dais directly beneath the large palm frond fan, operated by a system of vines that twined through smaller fans through the restaurant. Bruce ordered for them, an alcohol made from the juice of cactus leaves and a fermented tropical fruit (which he had no intention of drinking), and then let her take over the menu. "It's delicious," he promised her. "Especially the fish, but you choose anything. Whatever you like."