Los Hamptons
Ah, summertime in the Hamptons, a rosé hued oasis of golden sunsets, cedar-clapboard houses, and rolling vineyards. Schools of geese and local farm stands guide your way east from New York City towards the centuries-old lighthouse at Montauk Point. For a few fleeting months every year, you can find billionaires mingling with fashionistas, young professionals, and the casual urban escape artist. Catered garden parties “for charity” abound, while the bottle-service set dock their cigarette boats at Sunset Beach, on Shelter Island.
A few summers ago, a man came into my life. I’d made it through my first year as a divorcée and was living alone. I had just returned from a deeply healing “eat, pray, love” solo trip to Turkey, and was training for the New York City Marathon. I was finally happy, comfortable in my own body again, and feeling like a new, old me. That’s when this old acquaintance resurfaced. He was an architect living in Shanghai, working on a project stateside, and we reconnected through a mutual friend. The chemistry was instant, the obligations were none, and the setting? Straight out of a rom-com. He was building a house in the Hamptons, and suddenly I found myself hopping on the Jitney from Midtown on random weeknights, to wake up to morning runs on a stretch of beach littered with mansions. We’d pick up live lobsters in the boss’s Bentley convertible, and make love in the ultra-modern showpiece my architect had just built. You could make this up, but I’m not.
Our romance and eventual union were born in that heady, hydrangea-filled summer sea air. And as I spent more time there, I also became privy to a not-so unique aspect of Hampton’s life. That abyss between the rich and those who work for them. My architect would attend a swanky cocktail party by night, and be up at dawn with the Mexican roofers and landscapers. We’d meet later and he’d ask me, “Elena, who is guey and what should I do with a verga?” We’d laugh as I translated the lewd jokes sitting at the expansive kitchen island while ladies chopped fresh herbs from the garden and sliced mountains of jewel-toned watermelons; telenovelas from the kitchen counter tv blared in the background. I got to flit between these two worlds with ease. But the more time we spent there, the more the allure of wealth wore off, and the behind-the-scenes action of the people who made this lifestyle work felt more familiar and welcoming. I started asking about the off-season, and learned more about the people who kept those acres of private gardens manicured year-round. They kept the Bentleys gassed, and the salt-water pools sparkling. They sent their kids to schools further inland and were integral to the Long Island community. And so eventually I wondered, where did they like to eat?
Enter, La Hacienda, a hole-in-the wall Mexican restaurant in Southampton. Here crowds of workers, families, and the occasional in-the know Hamptonite who’s had just one too many lobster rolls, pack the tiny eatery’s tables. La Hacienda doesn’t just serve up chips and guac, or burritos like I’d expect from a Mexican restaurant in this part of the world. No, they serve up real deal, legit Mexican fare. Tripe and lengua tacos, ceviches, fried mojarra (a whole fish), and weekend menudo. After so many bottles of rosé and canapés, my architect and I found ourselves gravitating here. He’d pick me up from the Jitney, and we’d make it to Cooper’s Beach with our brown paper bags just in time for sunset. I fell in love with the architect that summer. I used to credit it to being swept off my feet and whisked away to this ocean front mansion. That certainly didn’t hurt, but I really fell in love with him sitting on a lifeguard stand at dusk chowing down on comida Mexicana.
The beach can be a great equalizer. The uber wealthy may have their million dollar beach front properties, but no one owns the lapping waves or symphony of seagulls and children’s laughter. Those golden shores belong to everyone, and no one is impervious to the immediate surrender and peace that comes from being on a blanket with something good to eat, and the one you love. When I’m in Los Hamptons, I like packing a picnic of fresh ceviche, and fried mojarra… Okay, throw in a crisp bottle of rosé, and you might call it bliss.
Find the recipe inspired by the tale HERE.
