Mike was a fixture out in Amagansett (on the left). We’d known him for over thirty years, since we first started coming out here. He owned the fish store next to the IGA — which isn’t even an IGA anymore, though we all still call it that — and he was woven into the fabric of this community in a way that everyone experiences in their own neighborhoods. His spot was called Amagansett Fish Market, but we called it Mike’s.
You could walk in at ten in the morning or four in the afternoon and get a shot of tequila with him, or a beer, and just hang out. All the regulars were there. He’d sit at the high-top table that had a few chairs and watch soccer on the hanging TV. He knew his fish. His tuna salad was the best around. His lobster salad, his seaweed salad, and his taro root salad were also excellent— the guy was a genuine talent and a true character. We are missing those mainstays in our fridge every day this summer.
He let me borrow his pots over the years, come into the back kitchen, and show me how he did things. When he got sick last year and started having trouble sleeping, I brought him gummies back from the city to see if they’d help. This summer I drove up to the store, one of my first stops out east, to pick up the salads and say hi to Mike, and there was a sign that they were closed this summer due to Mike’s illness. I knew he’d been diagnosed with cancer last year.
About two weeks ago, he passed away. I think about him every time I drive up to that IGA for my weekly groceries. There is a hole in our summer. How many times did I call to say, “Can I get a lobster dinner for eight, pick up at six,” and he made it happen every time. I loved gossiping with him about what was going on in town. He always asked about the kids and the entire family. He knew us all. But that’s exactly what made him part of this place. Now I wonder who our fishmonger will be. Who do we go to now? I miss the camaraderie vs. buying from a place where you don’t know anyone behind the counter.
That’s the thing about everything local out here — it’s the people who make it what it is. Which is part of why I can’t wrap my head around what East Hampton has turned into. It looks like the Upper East Side now. I don’t go into town anymore unless I need to run an errand at Citarella or see a movie — there’s nothing left that feels like it belongs here. Even the old hardware store recently got sold to Hermès. How does that serve the people who actually live here year-round? Why would a year-round local ever need to shop for their kid’s clothes at Gucci? The town can’t seem to issue permits on time, but they don’t say much about the absurdity of luxury creeping into every last local thing. That’s a whole separate conversation.
For now, I just want to say I miss Mike. I’ll never forget him, and I’ll keep driving into the parking lot and looking at that fish store, hoping someone takes it over and keeps it going. It’s a reminder of how many different communities we all move through in a lifetime — none more important than another, necessarily, but each one real. You end up connecting with people almost by accident, and they become part of your life. There’s something genuinely beautiful about that, especially right now, watching so much hatred coming from the leader of this country. Being able to recognize and hold onto the warm, small communities in our lives feels essential right now. Rest in peace, Mike.
