The Party Reporter: Greek Week

The skies were orange and hazy and the air smelled like fresh Texas barbecue . .  The smoke was drifting south from the tragic Canadian wildfires, but on my Wednesday morning beach walk I didn’t know anything about that.

Wrapped in my Turkish-cotton peshtemal and sporting yellow swim trunks, I spotted a great dane coming toward me that looked like it weighed more than I did; his owner was arguing with someone on the other side of his iPhone. The four-foot-long dog walked into the area where the piping plovers’ nests sit. I veered away into the wet sand where the high tides had been crashing about 20 minutes before… (This was also the spot where I ran into my actor friend Meg Gibson back on July 12 and she broke the news that Lindsey Graham had died. I had squawked so loudly that I attracted seagulls and attention from passersby.) I continued my walk, going east toward Indian Wells, and eventually found the morning meet-up of beach dogs — little chihuahuas playing with border collies and, in true Hamptons fashion, a toy poodle wearing a bow in its freshly groomed pelt. The dogs were well-groomed, but most were without leashes or collars. One was being kept in a carrying bag as if it was going to bite or jump.

The sun was by now peeking through the clouds, and it was unusually red. I figured it was just a hazy morning. I listened to Gwen Stefani and the Spice Girls on my stroll back to the car, and then headed home to continue with my morning, answer a few emails, and pop over to Pinterest for some ideas for hats that I could potentially wear to the upcoming Watermill Center benefit.

Thursday morning rolled around slowly — as slowly as the giant tires on the red tractor I got stuck behind on Montauk Highway as I was headed out for my beach walk. I got there a bit later than I had intended, though this time I was the only person in sight. The only thing I saw of interest was a monarch butterfly, possibly the same one I’d seen in previous days, fighting against the winds going east.

In the afternoon, I went to Sag Harbor to see what goodies I could grab at the Five and Dime. I went in for a few yards of red-and-white cotton to make myself some new headscarves, and left with fabric, laundry detergent, stain remover, pins, needles, red thread, a thimble, and a fun pair of sunglasses. I recently bought a pair of red, unlined lamb-suede ballet flats and an oversize white denim dress (with pockets!) that I’ve been itching to wear around town, to complete my French ingénue off-duty look.

Channeling the spirit of Rue Cler in Paris’s 7th arrondissement — a place devoted to shopping, dining, and the art of seeing and being seen — I appointed myself a flâneur for the day. I wandered through East Hampton Village, scanning the streets for a familiar face. Alas, no Ina Garten. No Paul McCartney. Not even a minor celebrity cameo, unless running into my high school class president counts. Perhaps because, unlike Paris, East Hampton requires one to first earn an appetite before lunch at Carissa’s Bakery — and I simply hadn’t. Carissa’s is where you’ll find Ina and Paul, maybe even sitting together, who knows!

Over the past week, I’ve bumped into Jane Krakowski and her son Bennett Robert Godley, Hailey and Justin Bieber in Amagansett Square, and, while climbing into my beached-up Jeep, Martha Stewart sitting in the passenger seat of a Range Rover, finishing up a phone call on speakerphone. In the week before, a dear friend shared with me via iMessage that she had run into Cardi B at the CVS on Montauk Highway across from the Red Horse Market, as well as Benny Blanco in front of the Amagansett Library. The next night, another friend texted me saying she was having drinks with her sister-in-law at Il Buco al Mare and spotted Emma Roberts, who asked for “a salty white.” Of course, I had a few follow-up questions, and my friend gave me the full scene while still on the ground:

“If you’re facing the bar from the entrance, she’s near the corner, where I’m sat. But she’s not really tucked away. She’s in front of the row of windows facing the sidewalk.”

I chuckled. 

“I have nobody to talk to about this,” my friend wrote back. 

Apparently, the Il Buco team comped Emma’s wine, from what my friend overheard.

I held back from contacting TMZ.

Before leaving the somewhat quiet East Hampton Village, I stopped in to White’s Apothecary to pick up a prescription refill and more sun block, but most importantly to say hi to Christos Tsioros, the head pharmacist. He was my first boss, and White’s Apothecary was my first job at 14 years old. Mr. Tsioros is on The List, EAST magazine’s editors’ take on Hamptons Magazine’s “Power List.” Others named include Big John Ryan, Minerva Perez, Gian Carlo Fileppa, and Hugh King.

Friday arrived overnight, and I made plans to head to the Hamptons Greek Festival in Southampton with my friend Sophie Flax. Since I’m scared of driving on roads wider than two lanes total, Sophie tends to act as both my best friend and my tour guide when driving anywhere past the car dealerships in Southampton. We talked about who we thought might be there and agreed that we’d spot Yanni Bitis, a Sag Harbor local and possibly the most Greek American alive.

After parking in a hedge and walking up to a church, we found where we’d be buying our dinner. The venue where we ordered our food was the hall where Pierson High School previously had their school prom, Sophie told me, and after waiting in line for about 15 minutes, we were greeted by the very person we were expecting: Yanni Bitis! He was wearing a blue apron with “Hamptons Greek Festival” in white letters, and we got to catching up since last running into one another in Brooklyn. While getting my food from the amazing staff, I met Eleni Fotopoulos, who introduced me to her husband, Andy, and daughter Alexis. She said she’d been part of the festival for quite some time, and was excited to welcome us.

Sharing our trays, Sophie and I ate spanakopita, hummus and pita, chicken gyros, dolma, baklava, a rice pudding, and loukoumades – a bite-size ball of dough covered in honey and topped with cinnamon and chopped walnuts. After wiping the corners of our mouths, we went window-shopping at the vendors’ booths, and saw tons of shiny evil-eye jewelry and white linens. The sun was setting, and I felt like I was on Patmos. We agreed it was time to head home, and so we found our car tucked between a Range Rover and a G-Wagon, and drove away. 

On Saturday I drove to Brooklyn with Vivien Ramsay. The clear, blue sky over Amagansett, where we started our journey, looked like the desktop screensaver on your first Windows computer, circa 2007 — if only a palm tree could grow in Amagansett. We’d heard there might be rain, but we really didn’t know what we were in for. After passing through Sunrise Highway and eventually getting to the Long Island Expressway, we ended up in what Vivien called “a monsoon.” She used to live in the Philippines and assured me that she’s driven in worse conditions. We put on techno music, and opened cans of Coca-Cola for a little caffeine kick to get us through the tempest. Between stories of nights at Area, her time living in Manila, and the bike rides from her apartment between SoHo and Tribeca, she offered the kind of reassuring advice that comes exactly when you need it. We rode in the H.O.V. lane and the storm had cleared up by the time we were driving down Flatbush Avenue.

I’m reporting to you now from Brooklyn, and the air here smells somewhat cleaner than it did a few days ago. Beyonce and Jay-Z are most likely staying here at their home downtown, I’d assume, considering their East Hampton driveway gate was rammed into this past week. I’ll be back out east by the time you read this, getting ready for a big weekend ahead: the Watermill Center is expecting big names, and bigger outfits (that should be monochrome), at their big annual benefit. My editor Frances Sacks and I will be hiding in the hedges, and will report back next week with a tell-all. I’ll be wearing orange. Keep an eye peeled.