THE FRAGRANT GARDENS outside the kitchen at the Farmhouse at Serenbe are covered in mint. Walking through them I'm reminded of the old myth about mint and how this sprawling herb got its name: Pluto was in love with a beautiful nymph, Minthe, but when his wife, Persephone, found out she turned Minthe into a lowly plant. Pluto couldn't undo the curse, so he gave Minthe a sweet, refreshing scent and flavor as an eternal parting gift.

Reveries such as this are easy to come by at Serenbe, the environmentally sustainable community started by Steve and Marie Nygren in the early '90s, since life here moves slower, and to a decidedly different drum. The 900-acre community is built within 40,000 acres of protected land within Chattahoochee Hill Country, with a master plan that calls for 80 percent green space. Within its Brigadoon-like seclusion, Serenbe offers a working organic farm, shops, the Blue Eyed Daisy Bakeshop and an equestrian center.

Becky Stein/SPECIAL (ENLARGE)
The herbs grown behind Farmhouse at Serenbe eventually find their way to the kitchen at the restaurant.
Becky Stein/SPECIAL (ENLARGE)
There's no menu at Farmhouse except for a daily chalkboard with prix fixe meals that might include the buttermilk chive biscuit with seared asparagus, quail egg and hazelnuts.
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But it is the Inn — an old farmhouse built in 1905 — that draws Atlantans down South Fulton Parkway to its beckoning wrap-around porch and naturally landscaped pool. Inside the Inn is the Farmhouse and its informal dining room of a mere 50 seats and an enchanting kitchen that would make Martha Stewart turn green.

Eating here is more like being invited to dinner than making reservations at a restaurant. Much of that effect comes from the fact that chef Tony Seichrist, who worked for more than two years at Five and Ten in Athens, makes a prix fixe meal of three courses, with no options — what he decides to cook for the evening is what everyone eats. And what he decides to cook is what he gets from Serenbe Organic Farms, the farmers at Fresh Point in Forest Park and other surrounding farmers near the community. He is, as he puts it, "always waiting on the garden."

Nothing from his kitchen seems to suffer much from the delay. He has a way with vegetables — especially vegetables that are often unpopular — that mesmerize and intoxicate as much as that Scottish village that appears only once every hundred years. Brussels sprouts are courted into kingliness within the confines of a cast iron skillet and a little bacon grease and salt. Cauliflower is roasted the same way. The result is fresh, simple, full-on flavor, particularly when each is served with a well-cooked piece of fish like grouper or wahoo and matched with the starchiness of quinoa or coconut-laced rice.

There is no menu except the daily chalkboard, and Seichrist, who uses recipes only for baked goods and desserts, rarely remembers every little detail of what he might have done in a specific dish. He just cooks.

And he does that on a six-burner stove that doesn't allow the kind of intricacies a large kitchen is capable of providing. The result is a practicality that works wonders: Seichrist cooks fish because it's fast, easy and on a smaller note, healthy. He pan-roasts vegetables because it's flavorful and efficient. He makes simple desserts like crème brûlée and berry kuchen because he doesn't have the space to do anything more elaborate. His expedition system for getting orders from the kitchen to the table is a clothes line with orders clipped to it that stretches across the gate of the kitchen.

And there will rarely be the same thing twice. Softshell crab is crispy fried, served over fresh baby greens and doused in a wonderfully tart buttermilk dressing. Fresh-picked arugula is plated with sliced heirloom tomatoes, chevre and bits of fried Vidalia onions for a crunch factor. Wahoo (which was otherwise overcooked) is crowned with a warm salsa of crayfish, Vidalia onions, scallion, garlic and parsley. A spoonful of Meyer lemon crème brûlée gives way to a mild pout of tartness and the perfect combination of cream and egg.

Certain inconsistencies make the meal less pleasant than it could be. The staff is generous with cordiality but short on experience; some even have a cultish, just-drank-the-Kool-Aid demeanor. Service felt most times like a toddler's tea party — lots of innocent pomp, but very little circumstance. And even after a year in operation, the restaurant still doesn't possess a liquor license. If you go, buy a bottle of wine first (there's not much to choose from in nearby Palmetto). The restaurant will open it for you and happily provide glasses with no corkage fee.

For many of us, the Farmhouse at Serenbe will be much like our very own Brigadoon — too far to go often, but worth the enchantment when we, after a rambling drive through the countryside, find ourselves at its doorstep.