Just ask for "the Clinton table," the six-seater said to be Mr. Clinton's perch of choice in the middle of the restaurant, with an unhindered view of the open-airkitchen.
Then I lay there, listening to the boiler roar, and feeling the cool air on my face as it came through the half-open kitchen door, and the warm water on my body.
From the beach, we have just a few seconds to sprint back to the kitchen before the torrent arrives, washing away the heavy night air until the next day's show begins again.