It’s peak produce season on the East End, however briefly. (Photo by Susan Wood via Getty Images.)

T here’s a scene in the 1989 film Weekend at Bernie’s where the two protagonists are treading water in the open ocean, their dead boss floating beside them like a pool toy, and one of them declares that this is, in fact, “the perfect weekend.” Corpse and all.

I think about that scene more than I probably should. It’s the closest thing to a thesis statement I’ve found for the Hamptons: Everyone insisting they’re having the time of their life, while something underneath it all is very clearly not breathing.

As a kid, up until I was around 28, the Hamptons were only familiar to me from that movie. It took about four years of living in New York City to finally get my first taste. I was the help, one of a few chefs asked to cook an afternoon event for a high-profile person in their high-profile home, among a lot of other high-profile people. I was sent off in a U-Haul with the rest of the catering crew for the day, anxiously anticipating our arrival.

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