The Party Reporter: Red Hots
The U.V. index is rising. The afterglow of Ozempic is fading. The girls are stashing their Camel Blues in that pocket in their purse that seems to have been designed for a soft-packet of tissues. They’re coming in for the weekend on the Hampton Jitney, living in Murray Hill, staying at their boyfriend’s dad’s house in Southampton.
I’m East magazine’s new Party Reporter. In the summer, I live in East Hampton and travel between here and Bushwick with too many bags and not enough practical shoes. I’ll be writing about parties, art, dinners, studio visits, ambition, minor scandals, major outfits, and the strange ecosystems that develop wherever three or more New Yorkers gather near a hedge. I’ve spent enough summers out east to know who owns the house and who rented the car. I’ll keep track of who arrived, who left, and who wishes they’d done either sooner — which is how I found myself in last week’s situation.
My P.R. agent — my aunt — didn’t score me this invitation. I got here the old-fashioned way: by wandering into the wrong place.
It was a balmy night. My shoulders were out. So were my ankles.
I was wearing black trousers that’re pleated in all the right places, and hit the perfect spot on my ankles. I purchased them when I was dating a guy who treated black trouser shopping as a competitive sport. On top, I donned a simple black vest, and for accessories, I was wearing my body hair. There’s quite a bit of it; I’m Turkish. A little poking out the top of my shirt, a little on the sides, and a little on my legs. A little spice goes a long way . . .
I walked by Almond in Bridgehampton on a Friday night, June 5. After dinner service on Fridays, it’s a place where a specific kind of man scouts the room for a familiar glint. On certain nights in summer, men from Hell’s Kitchen congregate on the lawn on the Ocean Road side of the building, and the Uptown ones take up their position by the bar. It’s always nonchalant — until a certain someone walks in. (His ex, your ex, your ex-best friend, the finance guy with a wife and kids who only texts back when he’s on a work trip . . . we’re all looking for a familiar glint.)
That night, it was wrong place, wrong time.
Mind you, I love Almond — both the restaurant and Ms. Almond Zigmund, for whom the restaurant is named — but this night was the Knicks’ second game against the San Antonio Spurs. Where I hoped to find a jock who knows how to wear a jersey and can “split the G,” I found men in tailored navy suits checking Polymarket on their Apple watches. Too many mussels, not enough muscles. It seemed that the only thing I’d be turning up was either a solo martini glass or the reliable voice in my head telling me to call it a night. I decided on the latter.
As I was walking back to my car, a handsome businessman wearing a salt and pepper beard and a low-profile Ferragamo loafer stopped me to ask if I knew the score. I was initially happy to chat, but after catching a waft of his Dior Sauvage — I could feel it seeping into my aprés soleil — I cut him off. “You’ve got a phone, right?” While fingering his Tesla key fob, he shot me a sleazy smile and I saw what was on his bill: sautéed spinach. I turned around and bolted.
On Saturday I found the right place. Tom House, the founder and director of Hamptons Pride, was kind enough to extend an invitation for the charity’s annual fundraiser at the LongHouse Reserve. An auction included work by Ross Blecker, Donna Corvi, Bastienne Schmidt, Gus Yero, and a handful of others. I gayly accepted and brought a plus-one: Rachel Osborne, the art director at East.
As I was arriving, Arlene Bujese was leaving. We brushed past one another on the grassy garden path as she headed for the exit. “I love that you are wearing Schiaparelli,” I said, and she swirled around with a beaming smile, and said, “Well, you’ve just missed the speeches.” The party was over — according to her. I couldn’t believe the party would be ending so soon after starting; I could feel the heartbeat of the dancefloor in my fingers and toes. When I had a look around to see how the bidding war was going, her page was blank. Her party was over. (Or so she thought. By the end of the night, she caused a bit of commotion where ink meets paper. . . .)
Seeking fresh air, I meandered over to sit next to Jack’s pool, a centerpiece at LongHouse. As I sat down, a golden doodle and two dapper men in Hoka sneakers and Amber Waves trucker hats followed the breeze into the lush gardens and disappeared into the shady recesses at the far end of the yard. Rachel and I giggled and thought, No . . . You think?
About 30 seconds after the pair disappeared into the north side of the lawn, a second pair emerged from the south side holding empty wine cups that only moments before must have held a few sips of chardonnay. (I’m assuming. Neither seemed like rosé kinds of boys, or beer drinkers, either.) They giggled and looked a bit flustered. We nodded. It was like they whispered with their eyes, “Yes, yes, it happened. Just don’t tell anyone.” Black loafers were worn by both, helping to pull together the casual Amagansett farmer-chic look we saw at Loewe a few summers ago. But their best accessory was something you can’t bid on, or buy anywhere: bright red ears and flushed faces. Demna should consider this for his next collection at Gucci. They ran back to the house to close out their bids.
Kathee Burke-Gonzalez, our local Democratic incumbent who is running for re-election as supervisor in East Hampton, and town board member Cate Rogers also attended the Pride party. I turned my cheek — looking where to find the bar, really anything to sip on, because I thought I had swallowed a fly — and noticed our local politicians dancing with my friends Lisa and Pam. Jerry Larson, who ran against Burke-Gonzalez in the Democratic primary, was nowhere to be found. My guess is he was at the Staples in Bridgehampton printing lawn signs…
Alongside the politicians, pinstriped princesses, and bedazzled bears was Jess Frost, the executive director of Duck Creek Arts Center in Springs. We’d all prepared our colorful shoes and stripes for Pride month and were transported to Cherry Grove by the deejay as well as the group of individuals who were advertising the first Queer Film Festival happening at Cherry Grove later this season. The woman who founded the festival did share her name with me, despite it not being on her business card, though I can’t remember it because, truthfully, her 1960s Dior floral hat was all I could think about. While some men stayed on the fringes of the crowd, ladies in the center, there was a spotlight big enough for one: the individual who wore the funky Limelight-esque shoes (you all remember the nightclub Limelight, right?) swiftly left the dancefloor and later joined me from across the pool. I asked his name after complimenting his shoes. After sharing that I am the party reporter, he quickly changed his name. My response: “Well, sunglasses suit everyone!” He is certainly someone!
Despite her early dismissal, Ms. Bujese’s Schiaparelli piece wasn’t the only one that paraded around the parterre on Saturday night. Dianne Benson — one of New York’s crown jewels, sewing together the art and fashion worlds, she also chairs LongHouse’s Arts Committee — had on a splendid lightweight taupe-tweed suit, paired with a Schiaparelli brooch on her left shoulder. After our quick catch-up sharing stories of our past week, we arranged a time for tea in her garden, and she introduced me to a kind friend of hers — he’s an architect, boys! Though I think he has a suitor, and his suitor wears Bode — head to toe. . . .
Tom House, must’ve hopped on the P.A. system to let everyone know — guessing there’d be boys who’d skip away into the brush — that the night was over, and we ought to go home. I said goodnight to Jess Frost, as well as one of LongHouse’s newest sculptures on view, by Renee Cox, and took my tuchus home.
But summer has only officially started just yet, as of this Sunday. Our first gala is approaching. I’ve just had my first pedicure of the summer out east in Amagansett: red polish. After, I went to John’s Drive-In in Montauk with my friend Maddy, and Chad Smith — the drummer of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers — tapped me on the shoulder, smiled at my bright red glossy toes, and said, “Excuse me.” Maddy melted. I was more concerned he might have ruined my nails.