Cabaña

Barb e-mailed. "Heard you're going to the beach with Mrs. Baker. Stay out of jail." Talk about pots throwing stones at kettles' houses. At the best beach I've been to, and I've been to a few, Mrs. Baker says Mr. Baker gets nervous when she sees me. "Me? What about your other friends? Who drinks more, me or Meghan?" "Meghan." "Who's more likely to get in trouble with the law, me or Barb?" "Barb." "Who's more likely to crawl across a bridge screaming, 'I'm drunk and I can't get up,' or have bobbies drive her around while all the pub glasses she stole clink under her jacket because she can't remember the name of her hotel, or tell people to 'Get the fuck out of my house,' me or Julie?" "Julie." So why should I get the bad rap?

My dad used to take me fishing in Southampton and I loved the woods near the water. During my stay with Mrs. Baker, we are asked repeatedly by natives, "You girls been out here all summer?" Nope, just one day. And we must appear to be bumpkins, as most locals we encounter complain to us about the city people. Our first evening, we sit outside at the Driver's Seat for highly horseradished bloodies and ask the bartender does he know where Cabaña is. He says yes, but if it's open it's the best kept secret out there. He was supposed to work for them last year, but the kitchen didn't open and they never got back to him.

We follow his directions and find a white house shaded with trellises, fronted by an SUV-filled parking lot across the highway from a field of sunflowers. Within, a burled, beat-up bar and a rug on the wall. Cabaña's staff is thin and wrapped in low-riding sarongs. Our bartendress tells us she had a delicious and very affordable dinner that included steak and scallops, at Sunset Beach on Shelter Island. But when she ordered shots of Patrón for her party of four, they were $15 each on the check. My mom says if you have to ask how much, you can't afford it, but I think asking before ordering is maybe a habit we should all get into. We're poured $10 glasses of wine. A thin peppery Cotes du Rhone for Mrs. Baker and lemony pinot grigio for me. We drink three and are billed for two. The menu lists 11 bottles ranging between $36 and $180. Citified guests of the adjoining Capri motel nosh at the bar. "Two cellphones?" sneers Mrs. B. On the patio, a private cocktail party is winding down. Two men come in to ask, "When does it get crowded?" "Nine o'clock." Probably more like midnight.

Dinner is served Thursday through Sunday in a large, Asian-accented lounge with coffee tables and mattressy benches; better for drinking than eating. The low tables are set for bottle service. Only one bench seat between tables, so you'll have to share. A fireplace is lit up with candles. Look down to see ratty carpeting; look up to see billowy fabric below lights that go pink to purple to blue. The chill lounge music loudens as the evening wears on, and along with the lighting puts a mod clip in your mind that will last the weekend, alternating with a scene of hazy air and crashing surf on a wide almost deserted beach. Two pleasing and most disparate brain backdrops.

We start with half a dozen Blue Point oysters in ponzu sauce ($12). Each oyster is wittily served in a Japanese soup spoon; the white-ceramic type that you can't get your mouth around. We clink spoons in a toast and our waitress giggles. There are tiny dice of pickled carrot for color and a bit of floating caviar for a fun pop, but the only flavor is vinegar; the oysters might as well be tofu. Mrs. B. recalls the bartender told us no less than three times how good the Asian red-miso-glazed beef salad ($16) was; the chef is giving her the recipe for her birthday. This salad answers the question, "Why aren't you a vegetarian?" Some caramelized fat on the beef; it's smoky sweet and supported by greens, frisee and radicchio. The dressing has spicy hot spots and tastes of sesame oil. Involuntarily swaying results.

When our entrees arrive, Mrs. B. gazes at her tiny steak and says, "This is how they stay thin out here." But the filet mignon's ($26) classic red-wine sauce is the best I've had on a steak. It's spartanly served with three fingers of lightly fried pureed potatoes and a bit of bland spinach. Lobster with coral sauce ($23) is topped with watercress. It's a heap of pure lobster meat unfortunately overwhelmed by its mint and vanilla-heavy sauce. I can't taste the meat. However, the accompanying heaping tablespoon of spinach soaked in the creamy and inventive sauce is heavenly. Mrs. B. disagrees with me; she says the sauced shellfish is exceptional.

We're convinced the table is miked, since the staff immediately attends to every need we come up with. A couple of girls behind me poke suspiciously at gorgeous thick slabs of glowing, almost translucent, salmon: "It tastes weird." Our waitress comes by and attempts to make small talk with us, causing us both to stare at her confusedly. She probably thinks we're a lot younger than we are; Mrs. B. still gets carded. A fashion-forward group of share people piles in at the next table, but scrunch together, avoiding Mrs. B's bench seat. They order a bottle of Grey Goose and three carafes of pastel juices are brought for mixing. "Why are they all sitting over there?" "They can tell you have cooties." She turns around to demand an answer from them. Well, they're waiting for more folks. They graciously invite us to join them, to assuage the miffed Mrs. B., but dessert awaits. A day-glo peach-colored ginger creme brulee ($12) is spiked through with a pure fresh ginger punch. The bowlful has a smooth, almost gelatinous, custardy consistency, but it can't please as much as it might, as the Rorschach-scorched brulee has been heated throughout. A tanned group has taken a table nearby. The guys are squat and steroid-enhanced and the women are rough-faced bottle-blondes with pushup bras and spike heels. Our check comes and we happen to notice that a 20 percent gratuity has been added.

We walk a few blocks to the microbrewing Southampton Publick House. Still hungry, Mrs. B. marches up to the bar and demands potatoes, which attracts attention. However, they don't serve late, so we must make do with pints of Montauk Light that taste like soap bubbles. We see a pair of spectacles we like at the bar. Later, their wearer says, "I hope you don't take offense to this. You're immature." I'm not offended, more impressed he picked up on that so quick. He and his surfer roommate invite us to go to a wedding with them the next night. Mrs. Baker informs them, "You can't really surf out here." Pints of Golden Lager are purchased for us; they're full and tasty. We ask the guys if they've been to Cabaña. They've not heard of it and express shock that we haven't been to Gin Lane in Water Mill. A young man comes over to me and whines that Mrs. B. can't see that he's the one for her. I bet I've spent a year out of my life listening to this same spiel from the myriad admirers of Mrs. B. At least there were no tears to contend with this evening. Late in the night, every pub patron is on his feet dancing to oldies. Mrs. B. tells the brewpub's bartender we ate at Cabaña. He says, "Where's that?" Before we leave, she commands me and four-eyes to kiss.

Next evening, for our post-beach refreshments we stop in at Gin Lane, on Montauk Hwy. The unassuming yellow house holds within a sophisticated dining room of white fabrics and light golden hue, and a warm lounge with wine bottles stowed in homey built-in cubbies. One of the owners is saying, "The first year is always the hardest." He's filling in as a waiter, which amuses the local bunch at the bar. I order the sweet, fresh oysters with thick, spicy cocktail sauce, as does the yachter next to me, who speaks of wintering in Palm Beach and recent visits to Europe. We talk about Key West, where his kid cousin Kevin went to a rave, but he stayed away?"Well, I'm growing up." "We believe you." They're going to a friend's opening at a Bridgehampton gallery. He has a killer smile and an enviable life, but I don't beg to tag along, as I've used up my sociability ration for the evening in the effort of striking up a conversation with him. So instead we leave, skip our reservation at George Martin and head to 75 Main, where an East Villager begs Mrs. B. for her number; to placate him, she gives mine. On our other side, a Guinness drinker who looks like John Travolta if Travolta still looked like himself turns to us and psychically mentions he's heard George Martin has great grub and reasonable prices. Figures. Later, Mrs. B. will notice that we are billed for only half of our beverages. Bedraggled, makeup-less and hungover in the a.m., hurriedly throwing our stuff in the car so we can get some shopping in, we listen to our motel manager keep repeating how we're "two beautiful angels." Angels? Tell it to Mr. B.

Cabaña, 281 County Rd. 39A (Rte. 27), Southampton, 631-287-9888.