Dominic Chavez for The New York Times
Offerings at the West Tisbury Farmers' Market.
It was late August in Martha's Vineyard, a bright, sunny day perfect for a farmers' market. I arrived at 9 a.m. with Chris Fischer — chef, farmer, guy who knows everyone. Mr. Fischer, who grew up on a farm here and has had a job since he was 9, looks as if he grew up on a farm here and has had a job since he was 9. His dark, weathered skin, wrinkly eyes, graying beard and cracked, calloused hands belie a mere 33 years.
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Dominic Chavez for The New York Times
The chef Chris Fischer took over the kitchen recently at Beach Plum Inn and Restaurant on the island.
Mr. Fischer, a 12th-generation Islander, was here to shop for the evening's menu at Beach Plum Inn and Restaurant, where he took over the kitchen four months ago and where, as you may have heard, the Obamas recently had a date night ("lobster for him, mussels for her," according to Mr. Fischer). The farmers' market here in West Tisbury is small but serves two entirely different needs. The first is for vacationers: bouquets of zinnias, alpaca sweaters, gluten-free muffins, fresh ears of corn to throw on the rental house grill.
Then there's the market that only the farmers themselves see. In this one, the players know who has the best field greens or who had a rough year. They pay each other in trade as often as in cash. There's camaraderie and history and real friendship among them.
At the Whippoorwill Farm stand, Mr. Fischer grabbed more beets than any civilian could possibly need. Next, he hauled an armful of basil plants from a man whose hair could only be described as Bozo the Clown Goes Brunette. At the Tea Lane Farm stand, we stopped to inspect buckets of delicate, papery flowers being organized by a young, cherubic-looking woman. And finally, I was introduced to a farmer named Bob, who handed Mr. Fischer two bags of potatoes.
"Arrgh, sorry," Bob said. "I didn't bring any today."
"Bob makes his own hooch," Mr. Fischer explained. "He usually brings me a bottle."
Scratch the surface of any vacation town and you'll find the locals. But on Martha's Vineyard, which has long been a popular getaway for Northeasterners (it's only two and a half hours from Boston by car and ferry), local culture is particularly storied: farmers, cheesemakers, coffee roasters and fishermen who have established an ad hoc New England utopia. They know one another intimately, date one another occasionally, work the land, rarely go to the beach and keep to the area known as Up Island.
This pocket of Martha's Vineyard — actually the western side of the island — revolves around the towns of Chilmark and Menemsha. It's where resorts give way to pastures and farmland and wildlife. It's where you find centuries-old farms run by 28-year-olds, as well as lithe women, whom you might mistake for models or actresses in New York or Los Angeles, picking kale on bucolic 10-acre plots. It's a bohemia that's both real and not: on one hand, there are dairy farms and free-roaming turkeys and people who barter vegetables; on the other, Bill Clinton plays golf nearby and Seth Meyers just had his wedding here. (Mr. Fischer catered, Tea Lane Farm did the flowers, and so on.)
And Mr. Fischer, who runs the famed Beetlebung Farm and who recently returned to Martha's Vineyard to helm Beach Plum (in my opinion, the best restaurant the island has ever laid claim to) is at its center. But here's the trick: Mr. Fischer's insider world — the farms, the food, the storybook beauty — is wide open to the public. The farms have unmanned stands on their driveways where fresh produce is sold. (Just leave your money in the cash box; it's the honor system.) At Beetlebung Farm, you can actually cut your own flowers. Other spots, like Tea Lane Farm and North Tabor Farm, are not technically open to the public, but the proprietors are usually happy to let you meet the animals, especially this time of year, when the tourists drift back home and the island empties out.
Mr. Fischer's approach to food comes from his father, Albert. A former commercial fisherman, Albert (imagine an only slightly trimmer Wilford Brimley) taught his children to hunt, fish, forage and farm, all before they hit puberty. "We ate off the land," Albert said. "Living on this island, you eat well." And then, in a phrase that could be printed on every Beach Plum menu, he added: "Food should be simple and fresh and you should be able to see your ingredients."
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