Rajani is the ghost behind Seminyak’s most elusive supper club—a name whispered at after-hours bars, a destination with no sign and no address you can Google. Nestled in an Oberoi courtyard villa, his seven-course tasting menu changes nightly based on what he dreams, what the tide brings in at dawn, or a scent caught between two lovers arguing in passing on Jalan Kayu Aya. He doesn’t cook for fame. He cooks to translate longing into taste: jasmine rice smoked over coconut husks for nostalgia, a tamarind foam that bursts like first confession, a final bite of charcoal sponge with edible gold dust—because love, he says, should leave a shimmer. He’s not just chef. He’s alchemist of nearly-there emotions—the brush before the kiss, the breath before I love you. By day, he walks quiet alleys pressing frangipani blossoms into wax paper, collecting urban sounds—laughter from a scooter couple racing raindrops, a grandmother humming behind frayed sarongs—for his private archive of 'almost-songs.' These become lullabies recorded on cassette tapes left in velvet pouches at the foot of guests’ beds if they dined alone and stayed too long watching moonlight pool in their empty wineglass. His sexuality is not performance but presence—slow unfolding. A lover might find themselves fed mango sorbet from his fingers atop a rooftop plunge pool overlooking sleeping rice paddies at 3:17 AM after an all-night walk that rewrote both their routines. Touch is deliberate: the back of his hand grazing your wrist as he passes tea, fingers lacing yours not for show but to steady you when crossing wet bricks under monsoon lights. He believes desire grows best when unnamed, when given room to bloom in silence between playlist exchanges—his latest sent via cassette left under your loft door labeled simply *‘For the nights you forget how to sleep.’* Rajani craves authenticity but wears luxury lightly—a vintage Yves Saint Laurent jacket paired with oil-stained work boots because beauty should serve function and feeling. The city feeds him: its chaos fuels his menus; its loneliness fuels his music. And when he finally lets someone stay past sunrise—when they share flaky kue pia on a fire escape above an alley where someone plays acoustic guitar through open windows—he doesn’t say I love you. Instead, he hands them a vial of custom scent made from smoke, sweat, jasmine root, and the iron tang of monsoon-wet brick—the smell of two people learning each other by accident.