Happy Fuckin' Cinco de Mayo

I need to pause on this dreary Cinco de Mayo and speak my mind about this unfortunate Hideaway situation, and how supremely frustrating local government or government in general can be. Zoning is meant to protect and preserve, I get that. But when officials can turn a blind eye towards violations left and right and in turn squelch the hopes, dreams, and financial stability of one well-meaning family, it bothers me to no end.

After over $40,000 of wintertime renovations, the Reichart family expected to reopen their beloved restaurant at the back end of the Diamond Cove Marina in compliance with town and county laws in time to make some of that money back during what we all know is a very short season, last weekend.

For anyone who has ever been there, you know the restaurant has been outfitted and ready to go. The beautifully tiled bar has been waiting for customers all winter. The spacious, shiny new kitchen is any professional chef's wet dream, and if you ask him, Skip will take you on a tour of the ample storage space -- cold lockers in the basement that were once used to store chum, shark bait, and fish, back when a fishing business actually existed.

You see, even if the Marina is in your family name, there ain't no easy way to make a living off the water in any capacity anymore... a matter that has been a part of the public consciousness since Billy Joel came out with "Downeastern Alexa" in 1989. The fact that the Alexa is/was not actually a fishing vessel but more of a yacht is besides the point. As an 8-year at the butt end of a long line of crusty sea-captains, I certainly enjoyed the shout out.

The point is that the Reichart family has not been able to sustain a living off the marina business for years, not for lack of trying, despite generations of work, and that alone should justify a "change of use."

"Change of use" is a big phrase in the world of zoning, it basically translates to "not on your fucking life" or "piss up a rope" in real human speak. In a completely logical world, where the ends justifies the means and the simplest answer is most often right, the family should be able to use Freida's awesome Mexican cooking skills and pre-existing kitchen, refrigeration units, and deck to provide a welcome service to the people of Montauk -- reasonably priced, finger-lickin good authentic Mexican food (and tequila) without a Hamptons label on it. This is no invention dreamed up by the people who brought you Nick and Toni's. It is the blood sweat and tears of a truly hospitable person who happened to grow up in Mexico.

But I digress. "Change of use" has been a big problem for East Hampton's Zoning Board of Appeals, and the well meaning planners who have reviewed the property have been, as I've said before, concerned with "preserving the character of Montauk."
The restaurant has been zoned as "take out," kind of like Dureyea's, which to my understanding is another wonderful restaurant that makes up the character of Montauk -- and is also completely illegal.

It may be hard to wrap your head around why the hideaway is not allowed real cutlery or plates, although it seems not to be a problem for any neighboring restaurants. You see, mountains of paper plates amount to environmental consciousness in the town's eyes, because a septic system that would accommodate a dishwasher would be a strain on the environment and the adjacent Marina.

What about the other seven restaurants abutting that same body of water? They are, I would assume, "grandfathered in," which means that while the town acknowledges that what they are doing is a detriment to the environment, that's ok with them. Those restaurants have been messing with the harbor water for years, and should be allowed to continue to do so.

A lot of the problem has to do with conflicting bodies of bureaucracy. The county says you need an awning over the deck to operate, the town says they'll shut you down if anyone sits under the awning. The SLA wants drinks dropped off by a server, the town says self-serve only.

This is the part of the whole sleazy situation that I am least apt to understand, here, or anywhere else where EHT has put down its big smelly foot...snowflake aka Cherrystone's, The Gig Shack... What is the big fuckin deal with allowing table service? We're in the middle of a recession for Chrissake, and that's how many jobs you're eliminating?! I'm not talking about myself, on a personal level, although I do like to do that a lot. I've already found myself another gig, at yet another "street name tavern." But does anyone ever think, about how many people would be gainfully employed if you just got off your high horse and allowed women in aprons to deliver food to tables?

Zoning issues aside, the part of all this that makes my heart sink the most is that some booger-face called the town to complain the second the Hideaway opened last weekend, crying "table service!" and imploring that they be shut down. Did they not notice the enclosed deck that just went up at Westlake -- a restaurant that I adore, mind you, but come on people! If you're gonna be a prick be a prick all the way! And while the Surf Lodge continues to dump toxic waste into the pond, and hummers line up along industrial road, what zoning official gave the OK for the Stink House Tavern to bulldoze sand into a swimming pool and build a bar on top?

The point is, none of this bothers me persay -- if I had it my way, any asshole would be allowed to build a bar in their sandbox wherever they damn well felt like it. What bothers me is that it's Cinco de Mayo and this should be a happy day for the Hideaway. Instead, anyone brave enough to venture out can at best enjoy a margarita and sopas while standing in the rain, on the left side of the deck, whilst elsewhere, New York City investors grow fat at our expense, and the band plays on...

I would like a fish and a bicycle, please.

So far, so good. I have been back in town for just over three days. My new bedroom is a lovely shade of sage green. I still need a lock on my door, a dish rack, some ashtrays, an ironing board, my desk chair, and a shizload of air freshener. I have fantasies about beds of lavender just outside my doorstep, but since this is another week when I have to decide between gas and food, and finagle creative ways to keep up my alcohol intake, the gardening will have to wait. At least, I tell myself, there is a yard – a rather large yard that will need to be mowed at some point in the foreseeable future.

Every new apartment has a certain funk about it. When I burst through the door on Friday, I got smacked in the face with this heavy, vanilla musk that was meant to cover the smell of decaying former hotel room. It took me a full day to locate the culprit, one of those awful oil-infused incense stick air fresheners that the former occupant’s girlfriend must have encouraged him to leave to mask the smell. Febreeze, fresh paint, lavender, and sage should take care of the problem. And getting rid of the moldy rug in the bedroom should help. Also, it might be a good idea to avoid opening the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

All in all, it’s not such a bad space. (This is Montauk. I’ve dealt with worse.) Wouldn’t you rather live in a tiny little hovel with a big yard than a palace with no space to play outside?

Anyway, it is times like these when I get to thinking I want a boyfriend, even though I know full well that Montauk is no place to look for one. Broke as I am, it would be so nice to have someone take me out to dinner. I’m hungry, damn it. And I could use a drink.

I could also use someone to help me replace that doorknob, and to lift up the furniture when I change the carpet. And of course, someone to take care of the lawn while I’m puttering around planting vegetables.

Boyfriends are great for a few other things, like keeping your feet warm at night, and drinking next to you so you don’t look like a complete looser who shows up at the bar alone.

Sometimes, they’re even good for conversation – I’ve never had one like that, but this is what I’ve heard, from some of my cosmopolitan friends who live in Brooklyn. They have boyfriend stores, in the city, where you can go shopping and try on a different one every day of the week, trade them in when you get tired, and all the while your cocktails are paid for. Marvelous.

I snap back into reality when I realize that I’ve had boyfriends before, and while the lawn would occasionally get mowed the doorknobs never did get fixed and my credit cards got maxed out faster than my boyfriends ran out of cash.

I see these girls, who never pay rent, and spend their money on clothes and pedicures – but that’s in East Hampton. Out here, with my own two feet planted on the ground, there will be no meal ticket for my superficial ass in the foreseeable future. This is the price we pay for freedom.