Lost in
Southampton
Friday, Sept. 8
I’m either very relaxed—perhaps soothed by the ions in the sea
air—or I’m coming down with something. I can never tell the difference.
I rode one of Bryan’s bicycles yesterday. Don’t know how far I
went—50 miles easy, maybe a hundred. I went out past the hospital. It, too, has
a huge hedge, I guess to protect the identities of the sick. Everybody is
supposed to be rich here, so they have to protect their identities. It’s a rule
written somewhere.
The hospital hedge is a few yards from the site of the original
town, where the religious dissidents (what else?) from Massachusetts built
dugouts to live in while they made more permanent dwellings. It conjures up a
strange picture—guys in Pilgrim hats and buckle shoes living like Hobbits.
Some firemen were setting up camp near Cooper’s Beach. More than
a dozen trailers were parked in the lot by the dunes and across the road more
firemen were pitching tents. It may be an outing of volunteer firefighters. I
saw a few trucks with different town names on them.
I could hear them blasting their sirens this morning, so there
may have been a parade.
The tide and the surf were high. The cloud cover had thinned, so
everything—sky, water, foam, sand—had a silver cast.
I rode some distance farther along the dunes until I got tired
and came back.
I seem to recall sitting in deck chair for—I don’t know—five
minutes or ten days watching birds fight over plots of grass by the pool. I
didn’t do anything, not even drink a beer, that whole time.
I took Joanna out to see the surf. The waves looked like they
were breaking just about at eye level. At one point the end of a wave came up
onto the beach and didn’t stop. I was wearing the only pair of shoes I packed,
so I was racing to keep my feet dry.
Joanna had the foresight to take her shoes off. That’s why she’s
pointing with her sandals.
The surf tends to be high here. We were sitting in the house at
night and Joanna asked if I could hear the ocean. I thought the noise was from
trucks going by on the main road a block or so from the house. Not so. It was
from the surf, which could be a quarter mile away from us.
Some brave souls yesterday morning were out in the waves. All
you could see were a couple of heads bobbing up and down.
After lunch, we visited the tasting room of the Wolffer Estates
Winery, which is just a little farther east of here than Channing
Daughters. When we got there, a man was using a forklift to load plastic containers onto a truck. I think they were shipping wine in bulk.
Turns out, they serve food there, and we could have had lunch
with the wine. But we didn’t know that at the time.
We split one flight of wines. it started with a sparkling wine,
“brut” because it was dry, and “blanc des blancs,” we were told because it was
made only from chardonnay grapes. It had a sweet edge, like Prosecco and Asti
spumante, the Italian sparkling wines that I know. That’s because the climates
of Italy and Long Island are warmer than that of Champagne, where the flavor of
the wine is drier. I do not know this. I am only repeating what I remember.
The second wine was a still chardonnay, a little sweeter than I
expected, but also better. I don’t know if it’s a quirk of my tongue or if
anybody else gets this, but one of the reasons I stay away from chardonnay and
chablis is that when they go down they have a musty, sour, almost moldy
aftertaste. I find them good with a few things that kill that effect—chardonnay
with Thanksgiving dinner, for instance—but generally I prefer reds. The Wolffer
chardonnay had none of that. It was very good all the way through.
There was a red that had been aged, if I heard right, about 15
years. I can’t swear to that.
The last was an ice wine. They pick the grapes late, and because
they can’t count on a natural frost in time, they freeze the grapes after they
are picked and then crush them. This one was definitely sweet. According to the
lady who served us, it would be good with a piece of hard cheese after a meal,
but not with chocolate cake. The red would be good for that. This last bit I
knew, because I often have red wine with chocolate.
The cheapest bottle of Wolffer wine is $37, and it goes up to at
least $195. That’s a little rich for my blood. I can buy classics like
Barbaresco and Chateauneuf du Pape for less than that, so I decided to pass.
Yesterday morning, when we stopped at the library to get directions
to Wolffer, I discovered there is WiFi there, besides the desktop computers
connected to the Internet. I went back there to send yesterday’s e-mail and
stopped at a restaurant called Tuscan House to make reservations for dinner. It
was Friday night, and I have no idea how busy the town’s restaurants get on
weekends this time of year.
I have to say, though, in case anybody comes this way, that
Tuscan House is overpriced. We shared an entrée—spaghettini alla puttanesca. It
is a tomato sauce with green and black olives, capers, and “a hint of
anchovies.” The green olives were very salty and there were at least twice as
many as there should have been. I know we’re near the ocean, but the salt
should not have been that overpowering. I couldn’t finish my half.
Joanna’s version of this sauce is far better—lighter on the
tomatoes, more anchovies, and very judicious application of olives and capers.
The wine, however, was very good, a Sangiovese, a pinot noir,
and a Chianti. They cut some of the salt.
Joanna had packed some beach towels in the trunk of the car, so
we went back to Cooper’s Beach, where the firemen were. You can smell the ocean
before you see it: Salt air and something like fresh clams on the half shell.
In the dark, all you can make out is the white lines where the waves are
breaking.
The sky had cleared, so we spread the towels on the sand and lay
down to look at the stars. Remembering the morning’s shoe episode, I made sure
we were well up the beach.
There were a couple of flood lights trained on the sand. the
cafe was closed but maybe the lights were on so no firemen would get lost or
fall in.
The light was strong enough that we couldn’t see the Milky Way.
Even so, there were so many stars, that I was lying on my back trying to find
one of the two constellations I know, Orion’s belt and the big dipper, but had
no success.
Same when we returned to Bryan’s backyard, where it was even
darker.
I almost fell asleep on the beach. As I say, I’m either relaxed
or coming down with something.
Saturday, Sept. 9:
We decided to come home today.
First we went to the art museum, but it
was closed. They probably don't have an exhibition right now.
So we said hello to the heads of the 19
Caesars in the yard next to the museum, bought an ice cream cone, walked on
Job's Lane and Main Street, and headed home.
We left around three, so we missed the
tornadoes. We had stopped for gas in Clifton and just as I was getting back
into the car, the wind hit and I got a spray of rain in the face.
That was it. All that downpour and I
didn't get rained on, except a little when I ran into the house.
It was great being home again, eating my
own meat sauce, getting mildly buzzed on red wine, watching season three of
"The Tudors" on Netflix. One of the joys of going away is that you
enjoy coming back, too.
Unless something really weird happens
close to home, the next dispatch should be from Hong Kong in a few weeks.
Sept. 9
Dear Harry,
Happy you enjoyed where I spent my
summers until I was 18. I have very fond memories of the east end of Long
Island.
I would love Joanna's recipe for puttanesca!
Sounds perfect!
Love,
Anna
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