East Magazine

William Norwich — chronicler of society, appreciator of beauty — clocks the changes on the South Fork.

Heather Rose Rauscher of Wainscott designs a high-style home-and-fashion line based on gorgeous mash-up prints.

A payphone still stands in East Hampton, behind Town Hall on Pantigo Road. Pick up the receiver and you’ll get an actual, albeit staticky, dial tone. Got your quarters ready? Thanks to 20-plus years of inflation, you’ll need two. A working payphone, in 2023 — is this really happening?

Bruce Cullum may not be the very last rabbit hunter on the East End, but he’s one of very few that remain. A century ago, rabbit hunting was common.

Don’t happen to own a luxury power lobster yacht or a Clyde-built wooden ketch? Never fear. There are so many fun ways for the public to get out on the water — party boats for everyone!

Summer is fleeting and life is short. Grab the sweetness of the moment by indulging in farm-fresh berries. Eat them at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In salads and margaritas and barbecue sauce. Ku-plink, ku-plunk them on everything.

Just how damn crowded is it, anyway? Spoiler alert: No one actually knows! If the flawed 2020 census were correct, our population would only be about that of the town of Aberdeen, South Dakota, but if the town planning department is correct, East Hampton in summertime is somewhere between New Haven, Connecticut, and Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

It seems like the prerequisite to starting a luxury tequila brand is to be famous. George Clooney, Kendall Jenner, Eva Longoria, Michael Jordan, and Adam Levine have all done it; the list goes on. The guy behind Montaukila, however, has broken that mold.

You’d recognize a bright Lilly Pulitzer shift at 100 paces — but do you know who actually created those magical Palm Beach-to-Southampton prints?

Let's revive the midwinter house party, pre-millennium style.

As a weird cheating scandal rocks the game at its highest levels, kids take to chess in increasing numbers. Tom Gogola reports on opportunities for the next generation of players.

Here’s an old photograph that will call out — like the sound of echoing ice, crack! — to those who spent the winter afternoons of their adolescence cruising Town Pond on skates as the sun went down. It’s a Saturday or Sunday, we’d wager, and — judging by the Fair Isle sweaters, the fuzzy earmuffs, the cut of the jeans — probably around 1980.