The words “Lily Pond” make me think of frogs, ducklings, lily pads, flowers and children’s literature. Interestingly enough, it’s actually the name of a nightclub in East Hampton. I got over my “What they were thinking?!” distress and decided I wouldn’t let the fact that the club sounded like a five-year-old’s favorite book prejudice my opinion. Yet trying to scope out the place with an open mind remained additionally challenging since Lily Pond’s rep at the poolside Hampton’s conversations I’d been eavesdropping on wasn’t positive. It seemed like I’d heard Hamptonite after Hamptonite hating on the place describing it as “a dump,” “Guido-central,” and “the worst night of my life.”

Yikes!

The snobs in South Hampton and beyond also complained about the club’s distance, describing it as “a long haul” compared to Pink Elephant or Dune.

I stayed in East Hampton this weekend around so the distance complaints were nixed. We were there in our insanely over-priced taxi in ten minutes. (Note: Taxi drivers in the Hamptons like to charge you ‘per head’ so they can make upwards of $100 dollars on inter-town rides. P.S. Meter’s are non-existent).

The backstory is that Lily inhabits the space formerly known as Resort. After a small fortune spent in renovations, it’s now the official brainchild of Unik Ernest (PM) and Michael Satsky (Stereo).

Outside was appropriately as mess just as any Hamptons club past midnight on a Saturday should be. I allowed myself to be herded through the entrance and found myself genuinely surprised by the layout before me. It was large! Almost spacious (for the Hamptons). And had real decorations ala Manhattan club with gold walls and chandeliers, unlike the pirate-y, sawdusty feel of Dune.

After apparently not having a lightening system set up Memorial Day weekend, the club’s now overcompensated by installing absurdly over-the-top mini spotlights. These rotating bulbs run up and down the room swirling varying shades of yellow, purple, pink and making it 100% impossible to discern if the object in front of you is man, woman, child or beast. So consider bringing sunglasses or nausea medication. Also, keep the random make-out sessions to a minimum because visual (and consequently mental) impairment is a certainty.



I’d always cited Pink Elephant’s status as ‘best’ Hamptons club on the fact that they were the only venue with a substantial outdoor area. Come to find out, this isn’t true. While Dune is an enclosed sweatshop, Lily Pond boasts an outdoor area. The music’s quieter out there and it’s definitely not where the best bottle service or action is, but if you want to escape the indoor madness, chat with or merely get a concrete look at a fellow partier, the outdoor space is a lovely option.

A mysterious female rapper gave a thirty minute performance which was bizarre and unexpected, then the DJ took over in what I considered a commendable job. Yes, the club was a madhouse and uncomfortably crowded, but that’s to be expected. What I found noteworthy was how the whole space had this unique, European feel. Nothing that classy but several steps above in ambiance compared to other Hamptons clubs. I left early since I just wasn’t drunk enough to fit in and wanted first dibs on a bed, couch or air mattress.

On the whole, Lily Pond - nowhere near as bad as the South Hamptoners made it out to be. These folks just might be resistant to change.

Upstairs on Broadway and Spring a.k.a. that secret clubhouse above Café Bari in SoHo, gave wasted downtowners, celebrities, and underage models a private space in which to party till dawn. Known as a ‘late night venue,’ they ran a super selective yet hassle free door (no lines!), and provide needed relief from Meatpacking and the 27th street strip. I’ve been an Upstairs frequenter and fan since its inception, and the fact that it’s become inevitably more commercial, especially on weekends, doesn’t detract from the fun.

There’s no snobby décor, so you actually can chill out. There are no cracked out cocktail waitresses teetering around in heels. The place just feels like someone’s ratty living room that you have the privilege of shaking your booty in all night long. It’s comfortable. And there are no door people screaming for you to “clear the sidewalk” or coat check girls abducting your jacket behind your back. And, the best part, as I wrote months ago in an article entitled Ode to Clubs With Food:

At around 3:30 A.M. Upstairs serves snacks. Mini hamburgers, pizzas, and the best freakin’ French fries with sauces that put McDonalds to shame. These snacks unquestionably save my life. Not only do they start soaking up the excess alcohol in my stomach making me feel more like a human being and less like a swirling ballerina in a perverse city version of the Nutcracker, but they’re delicious and Tapas-size so you never end up overeating … So this entry is my love ode, in incorrect poetic structure, to clubs with food. Because I don’t feel I ever fully appreciated this phenomenon.

My evil genius was onto something. Mere months later, Upstairs launched ‘Downstairs’ - not a bar or extension of the club, but a classic diner. In the ‘late night’ tradition of the venue, the diner’s open from 11 PM to 7 AM, so people who like to eat post-party will have someplace to go other than French Roast and L’Express. The quirk? Danny A., Matthew Isaacs and Jordan Harris decided to pay homage to New York nightlife by naming everything on the menu after Manhattan clubs and promoters, past and present.

The Marquee Mac “N” Cheese

Matt Assantwich (after promoter Matthew Assante): His food form translates into a chicken and mozzarella white wrap with a touch of chipotle mayo toasted to perfection

The Beatrice Pancakes: With poached pears marinated in red wine sauce with mascarpone cheese

Is anyone drooling yet?

I almost wish they didn’t keep vampire hours so I could enjoy the food sober. Almost everything comes with fries and the crowd favorite (which the doorman was eating in the middle of the street on my way out last night) seems to be the Mike St Pierre Steak Sandwich, which comes with sautéed onions and avocado.

Finally! A light at the end of the hangover tunnel!

Naturally, I remain insulted that I didn’t get a Model Behavior dipping sauce or onion ring named after me, but that’s okay. Despite my love of mini burgers, I guess it’s just not my time to be immortalized through diner food. Check it out and enjoy.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com