The Party Reporter: Hello Goodbye, Hello Goodbye

This was one of the longest weeks of summer, even though the sunrise came later and sunset came sooner. My friends and I had anxiously discussed what the weather would bring: The forecast called for rain, rain, rain, but the sun came out and shined like nobody’s business.. It was perfect, with daytime peaks at 75 Fahrenheit, and evenings as low as 58.

On Thursday night, I tossed on a new orange corduroy top I’d just picked up from Alex Mill, hopped into the passenger seat of my friend’s car, and into the sunset we drove for our first lobster roll of the summer. The seafood shacks had been too crowded for us to enjoy a little lobster in July (and, frankly, I’m not desperate enough to park a half-mile away and walk back alongside the highway for a hot dog roll stuffed with a sea spider and margarine). My friend and I had been at home planning workout routines for the post-Labor Day season — my new ankle weights certainly will come in handy — but it wasn’t autumn yet and we had a hankering . . . so we chuckled and agreed the moment was right for hot lobster rolls and maybe a calamari to share. It was certainly worth the wait. We had the Lobster Roll restaurant on the Napeague stretch all to ourselves, and the service was quick and breezy. We realized we’d gone to high school with the hostess, too! After paying our tab and unbuckling our belts, we headed off for a quick dessert in Sag Harbor. No celebrity sightings, unfortunately, just lots of rowdy teenagers. One teen was brandishing his parents’ Platinum Amex credit card and sharing how “cool it is,” to have one. (I know, right? Wait until he finds out about the airport lounges in a few years.)

Friday night manifested itself in the garden: My friend Vivien Ramsay joined me for a San Pelligrino, and invited me to go dancing with her and some friends at the Surf Lodge. Ms. Ramsay wore a black silk archival Martin Margiela slip dress with a zipper down the side and a pair of black platform heels from an atelier in Paris. Since my friend would be in all black, I thought it was appropriate to wear all white: I put on an archival Donna Karan mesh top and a pair of black leather slippers, and tied a polkadot silk scarf on my head. After finding our table, and pouring a glass of sparkling water, we danced. WhoMadeWho was deejay-ing, and everyone was on their feet. . . .. 

And what was on everyone’s feet at the Surf Lodge is of importance! Most men nowadays are wearing dirty white sneakers, mostly Golden Goose or Common Projects, and those who prefer a shoe without laces are wearing brown leather Sabahs or a suede Belgian loafer. Most were in khakis and printed shirts, though a few chose form-fitting linens. I didn’t notice many Friends of Dorothy, though I did see a few boys who seemed to follow her down the Yellow Brick Road. . . .  

After dancing for quite some time, and sweating out the margarine from the night before, we drove over to hang out with a few friends at the Ranch on Old Montauk Highway. Max Levai was hosting a small get-together at the Ranch, and so we boogied on down to the converted horse barn where disco balls hung from the ceiling and a D.J. was spinning. A friend of mine does the gardening at the Ranch, and so into the secret gardens we went. I left with a handful of shishito peppers and a few varieties of tomatoes, and after plopping them into my trunk, we ran off to see Julius von Bismark’s installation, “Free Willow,” in the middle of the Ranch’s 26-acre property. I span around a few times under it, and talked about the boy I’d been seeing this summer with my friend. We ran through the dewy grass, said our goodnights, and parted ways back to East Hampton. The roads were dark and the stars were bright.

Saturday evening rolled around like a log in a campfire . . . literally. I showed up to my friend Rachel Osborne’s end of summer party around the fire on Two Mile Hollow Beach with a Napoleon cake, wagyu-beef hot dogs, and a container of Citarella potato salad. Another friend brought nearly the entire 2023 graduating class of Lehigh University; they all were astonished that wagyu beef hot dogs were a thing. I smiled and offered them up. Maddy Blesi showed up with a few bags of chips and dip, Max Mensch brought his shining personality and the sweetest gifts for Ms. Osborne (who is the art director of East magazine), and Tess Quinlan brought the Bluetooth speaker. We roasted s’mores and shared giggles about our celebrity sightings and near-death tragedies — like how much we’d all spent on groceries and hot coffees this summer.

After discovering how warm the water was, and how cold the air was, I dried off, and tossed my towel around my waist to drive back home to hang out with Dobby the house cat for the rest of the night. All poor Dobby knows is life around the house, with sometimes a brief foray around the neighborhood if he’s feeling adventurous, so I regaled him with tales of the party life. He winked and meowed, which I interpreted as a “Wow, how cool, Frankie!” We shopped online for cat backpacks — a knapsack with a clear-plastic viewing window that you put your cat in and wear so the cat gets to see the world outside — but he walked away when he saw the prices.

Sunday was calm and sunny, and everyone seemed to be sharing their last kisses of summer: I brushed past Alix Earle and Sally Carden going into Jamagansett in Amagansett, and watched Lori Hirschliefer and her family cross the street and run in for dinner service at the Lion’s Den in East Hampton Village. 

I got to thinking as I was writing this last column of summer 2026: No summer has ever been the same out here, but this one felt new. It was brighter. The people were different, the energy had shifted, and it was like a breath of fresh air. I think people are starting to realize how expensive things have gotten… but kindness is always free. I’m not headed back to Brooklyn until late October, though I may pop out occasionally on the weekends during the winter. Please, dearest partygoers, stay in touch.

Keep partying. Do wear white after Labor Day. And always tip your server.  

Cheers,

Frankie