The Left Fork

The North Fork is where you end up if you turn, appropriately, left instead of right at the point where the tip of Long Island spits in two. Follow the fading Bernie bumper stickers instead of the shadow of the BLADE helicopter and you'll find a land that time (and the NY Times) forgot. A land where a single-lane country road winds past roadside fruit shacks and through sleepy sunflower fields. A land where working farms don't actually need the working qualifier, because you know, what other kind are there out here? In these parts it's not called foraging, it's called harvesting and it's been happening every autumn since the first Thanksgiving.

Dad, I don't understand? Why is there so much grass here? Why are the buildings so short?

Looks organic, do you think my Amazon Prime membership will work here?

Might as well call it Brooklyn-by-the-Sea. Give it a couple more years and it will be the last stop on the L line. Give it a couple more years after that and One Love Lane in Mattituck will be the hottest condo development this side of the Gowanus canal.

Daddy, these artisanal pickles taste a lot like deli pickles. Quiet son, it's not about the taste, it's about the hand-sealed mason jar aesthetic.

On the Right Fork row after row of immaculately groomed hedges keep the gawking 99.9% at bay. The only way in is to (1) sponsor a charity polo match or (2) know something about gardening and be ok with cash only. But on the North Fork even the best Instagrams are free for all. That explains those Bernie stickers, single-payer hashtags anyone?

Spot the Manhattan kid. Despite a gigantic backyard to run around in he heads straight for the smallest room he can find.

All this wholesome, hand-churned buttermilk is making me nauseous. Slip on the Gucci driving shoes, punch the Maserati into bro-mode, and let's get this party turned hard right. Too Big to Fail is my fight song, what's yours?

Excuse me sir, do you have a parking permit for your dump truck? Yes sir, I do. Kid, that's impossible, you and I both know we don't give them out to anything beneath a Range Rover.

And the winner of the 2017 World's 50 Best Frat Houses is... The EMP Summer House! Don't let anyone catch you chugging Bud Light from a funnel.

Don't worry kid, the only hazing they do around here is when they drop the bill in front of Daddy.

Son, here's your first finance bro quiz: what's the difference between a Blackstone and a Blackrock? And which one has a hotter intern class?

Once the last BLADE back to Manhattan leaves we'll have the place to ourselves. Oh shoot, looks like everyone is flying private.

Fast forward one week and it's time to check out one of those working farms. And this one definitely needs the working bit, because one could easily assume the home of Blue Hill at Stone Bar is just a curated, planted-for-Instagram plot.

So far not doing much to convince anyone this is a real farm. How many farms whip up an organic latte this good?

Spoke too soon. Son, you're lucky your Daddy grew up on a working sheep station deep in the remote Moonshine Valley. Let me show you exactly how to get shocked by this electric fence. And then we can work on getting bucked off a pony. If you don't succumb to the pollen first.

Always a good sign when the meal is taller than you are.

Next time we're in the Whole Foods egg aisle you can put your new skills to good use. Until you get replaced by a robot.

No son, this isn't an Easter egg hunt and that black stuff on the eggs ain't chocolate.

This is the kind of perfect tomato that they built Instagram for.

Don't get tricked son, just because urban farming is all the rage now doesn't mean you want to get up at 4am every day to milk the cows.

Say barn-cured, hand-chiseled cheese and imagine you're tucking into a 17 course tasting menu at the 11th best restaurant in the world, right behind you. So close but so, so far.

Do not swing on the gourds son. They're earmarked for course 15.