The only hotel Out East that doesn't care who you are
a nice, warm shelter from the Hamptons
On my birthday last month, I asked Twitter to guess my destination from a photo of me riding the LIRR. Astute followers (mostly those intimately familiar with the LIRR) correctly identified that I was headed “out East,” but only narrowed it down when I posted this photo:
People go to Shelter Island to escape both the bustle of the city and West Village clones in the Hamptons. On this particular Thursday afternoon, the island stretched like a cat awakening from a nap—the hottest news was Stars Cafe’s new location. Shelter Island’s the distant, self-assured cousin to the Hamptons, in part because you can only reach it by private boat or ferry. My preferred approach? Nestle yourself between two SUVs for a short $3 ferry ride from Greenport, NY, and feel the bay wind on your face. If you’re packing light, surrender to the island’s rhythm and choose the 20-minute walk over a 5-minute drive from the North Ferry Port to Sunset Beach Hotel. Or ride your bike! (I prefer my two feet over two wheels unless I’m in the back of a motorcycle, but this is definitely a bike island.)
I strolled through a lush, green, unmarked park, past The Chequit, and noted the “SODA - DRUGS” sign for the Shelter Island Heights Pharmacy (real ones know this pharmacy serves the best sandwiches in town). A fork on the road points you left for Sunset Beach Hotel, but Google Maps promised me a shorter and more relaxed route through Shelter Island Country Club. This was where I FaceTimed NRZ, who was working East Coast Hours from Greece, and flipped the camera to show her Sunset Beach Hotel’s iconic yellow and white awning.
Where Shelter Island whispers, Sunset Beach Hotel flashes a coy smile and a wink. It’s welcoming but not desperate—uninterested in fanfare. Like its sister hotels (e.g., Chateau Marmont, Chiltern Fire House), Sunset Beach Hotel draws people in whether they book a room or a table. It’s also the kind of place where hospitality is an art form rather than a transaction. If Alessandro from Duke’s Bar (RIP) has ever made you an ice-cold, bone-dry martini, you know what I mean.
Something to know about me: I don’t love cocktails with dinner, but I cherish an apéro/digestif moment. So I walked down before dinner to stimulate the appetite, as they say. The maître d' tells me she’s saved her favorite table for me at check-in. I’m influenced, perhaps from the water, heat, or chatter of revelers, to stray from my usual City order (martini/negroni) in favor of a spicy tequila Campari drink with blood orange juice + a spicy salt rim.
I quickly learn that I do in fact have the best seat in the house. My table is in the middle, on the side overlooking the water and sunset—not because I asked for it, but because TRM called to tell them it’s my birthday. They thought I’d like the view, and they were right.
Sometimes I wonder if isolation and technology have forever changed the hospitality landscape. Restaurants and hotels evolved to meet clientele’s sterile and frictionless preferences with offerings like mobile check-in/out and QR codes. If I’m being real, these days I cherish the days of cringe, turning beet red as my dad joked with a server. The way I feel about reading physical menus is the way Scout Finch (we’re throwing it back!) felt about reading and breathing in general: “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing." No, thank you. I don’t want to scan your Quick Response code! So, I sigh with relief when the server brings me a menu depicting a cheeky acro-yoga couple superimposed on a California poppy.
My evening plays out like a series of vignettes with a choreographed Front of House ensemble cast; each table has its story but there’s harmony to the space. The restaurant manager takes it all in from the corner, directing the servers while letting them improvise. At one table, a group practices their French with the new French server. He indulges them while they share laughs. I later learn he’s from a ski town near Nice, which is apropos since the hotel evokes riviera vibes. At another table, a couple bargains with their towheaded child who’s lost interest in his food. He’s enchanted by the well-behaved dog at table next to mine. It’s not until he succeeds in petting the dog, that he returns to his meal. Someone brings the dog a fresh bowl of water. When dessert comes, I’ve befriended the women at the table with the dog, so I share some of my whipped cream with him. These casual interactions and expert anticipation of needs can make you feel both singular and seamlessly part of the scene. Sunset Beach Hotel doesn’t care who you are, they’re just happy to see you. And if you’re there on a weekend, they’ll invite you to let your hair down and live a little.
The hotel GM (shoutout Manolo) visits my table to introduce himself at some point. We talk about his move to the US from Europe and he assures me that Sunset Beach Hotel practices the same level of discretion as the Chateau Marmont (IYKYK). Something that stood out to me is that he works a core staff group at all his hotels, deploying them where the season is the hottest. So, you may be served by some of the same people in the winter in one part of the country that serve you at Sunset Beach Hotel in the summer. I decide that if I ever want to pivot to the hospitality industry, I’ll save the $$$$$ needed for Cornell’s Nolan Hospitality Management program and instead ask Manolo to train me on the job.
I ended the night with an ocean dip. It was the perfect digestif.
xxsem
