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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Lobster Tales

Most Americans have probably managed to discover a truck stop or hole-in-the-wall dive where the food is almost as unbearably delicious as the interior is lacking in ambience. We were lucky enough to find one of those places, purely by chance, on the third day of our vacation in Maine.

Tucked up against the waterfront, with lobster boats bobbing near its back, the restaurant looked more like a warehouse than an eating establishment. It was, quite honestly, butt ugly. We walked past the open door of the plain, gray-metal building after attempting to visit a nearby museum. Since the museum was locked for remodeling, we settled on a walk to the picturesque waterfront, completely overlooking a sign that declared fresh lobster could be bought and steamed on the spot.

On the way back to our car, however, David screeched to a halt when he saw the small, painted signboard. “Hey,” he said. “Fresh lobster by the pound. We haven’t had any lobster, yet.”

I looked dubiously at the list of foods available, feeling the moist heat waft through the doorway. “But, we just ate a couple hours ago.”

“We didn’t have much,” he replied. “You have to eat lobster in Maine; it just wouldn’t be right not to.”

Not entirely convinced, I got an earful of how important it was to let the kids experience new things. Okay, yes, that worked. Far be it for me to stunt the growth of my children.

I followed the family inside and then sidled off down a hallway to find the restroom. If I was going to help eat a lobster, I preferred not to see the fellow alive before he died for our benefit.

David was positively giddy with excitement when I emerged and followed him outside. “I got a huge one, a two-pounder,” he said. “You should have seen it!”

The eating area, amazingly, was uglier than the bland opposite side of the building. Painted wooden picnic tables, gray and peeling, were topped with maps beneath clear plastic covers. A handful of tables sat beneath a rippled metal overhang that protected patrons from rain but little else. The rest, including our table of choice, sat exposed to the elements.

Since we had to wait while the lobster was cooking, I walked to the back side of the store and snapped off photos of dead fish on ice, colorful boats, a gull on a pier and two men in bright, rubber overalls passing lobsters back and forth. Why the lobsters were going from hand to hand in opposite directions rather than being unloaded one way, I couldn’t imagine. I returned to the table, told David I’d witnessed a new sport called “Lobster Passing” and put the lens cap on my camera. He politely ignored me.

The lobster arrived around the time I came to the conclusion that I was going to turn into a popsicle if I had to sit out in the sharp breeze much longer. A cold, misty rain had begun to sting our faces and our youngest son, William, pointed at my arm, giggling about the goose bumps. We could have moved to the covered area, but decided that when in Maine you should sit in the rain and shiver. The concept of cold just seemed to go with the territory and eating fresh seafood for warmth made sense.

William amused us by ravenously eating the vast majority of the lobster meat and then playing with the lobster’s immense claw. Seagulls flew overhead or landed nearby, paper napkins threatened to blow away, and an occasional boat motor sputtered to life. We all agreed we’d found a special place to eat seafood in an authentic Maine atmosphere.

On the way home to Mississippi, several days later, we had a lengthy layover in Boston. Our day had already been a long one, thanks to an early morning packing and perusing the Portland Public Market, followed by a delayed departure. We were starving and bored, so we headed to the seafood restaurant inside the airport to fill the time and our stomachs.

William was thrilled to find that the children’s menu offered a half-lobster plate. After his first lobster experience, he was so completely hooked on lobster that we’d already had to remind him numerous times that lobster was too expensive to eat daily.

After finishing a bowl of lobster bisque, I turned to Will. He’d abandoned his meal and was happily reading.

“Did you finish your lobster?” I asked him.

Will set his book down, picked up the lobster by its tail and said, “I think he’s dead, Jim.” The rest of us laughed so hard it’s a wonder we didn’t fall out of our seats.

Upon our return, I told an acquaintance that we’d just returned from Maine. “I went to Maine for lobster, once,” he told me. “My wife and I were in Boston for a conference and we decided to drive over to Maine. They told me where I could find the best place that served lobster, so we drove there and stood in line for over an hour. It was a fancy restaurant and the food was good but we like to froze our tails off. Wasn’t worth it.”

I knew exactly what that fancy restaurant was missing, after our recent experiences eating seafood in Maine. The cold was dead on, but lobster in Maine is best served right by the water with the wind in your face and seagulls dipping to the ground for scraps, with steam clouds billowing out of a metal door and men in overalls nearby, laughing as they hand each other lobsters. The colder you are, the better the food tastes; china and napkins aren’t reality. Chilly air and warm seafood are life in Maine; and that life is good.