Summer of Seafood: Part 1

a stolen lobster, a break-in and pink suede loafers

From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newspaper Column (July 17, 1977)

Once upon a time in a harbor village on the coast of Maine, years ago when there were still hotels and only a few motels and people stayed in place for long vacations and all the tourists who came to town could be fed in the couple of restaurants that opened on the Fourth of July and closed on Labor Day, shore dinners cost the colossal sum of $2.75 and that included a lobster and mess of clams besides everything else.

I was an art student then, and it was summer, and I waited on tables at a restaurant at the dock. Life was like one of those enchantingly wholesome short stories in the old Saturday Evening Post. I lived with a native-born year-round family, in a room in their house on a hill overlooking the harbor. On the walk to work, the smell of fish and French fries would hit just as I’d round the bend at the foot of the hill and I could home in on the scent with my eyes closed.

The restaurant specialized in lobster. I got so I could yank them out of the tank fearlessly and stuff them into net bags and steam them in the prescribed 15 minutes, like nobody’s business. A little brass tag with a number stamped into it identified each waitress’s order, and nobody ever got mixed up.

One night my roommate and I stole a lobster. I never got over it. It was an evil idea we had toyed with for weeks that summer until we finally, furtively did it. Threw a one-and-a-quarter pounder into the steamer about 9:30 pm when the dining room was pretty well cleared, hauled it out swiftly and surreptitiously when it was done, stuck it in a box and stowed it in my car. When we got home, we made it into the tastiest salad found on any menu. It was probably the most mischievous thing we ever did that summer.

Maybe not. There was that trip to Squirrel Island one terrible, rainy night involving a ridiculous crew of two girls and two boys in—could it have been—a rubber boat? I remember distinctly a rubber boat and weak flashlights and oars and very wet sneakers. Somehow we got back about 2 am to the restaurant on the dock and snuck in through the kitchen door someone had left unlocked. Didn’t it feel some good standing beside the big stone fireplace in the main dining room, the remains of the evening’s fire still warming the place. But we were scared stiff to be in there after the restaurant closed.

Wouldn’t you know the owner’s nephew, a handsome, tall curly-headed son of a gun caught us as he himself was raiding the kitchen, that spooky, soggy night? We couldn’t tell if he was kidding when he threatened to tell on us. I was a little sweet on him and he didn’t know it; I was delighted with the attention even if it meant I might wind up with a criminal record.

Fifteen years and a marriage and numerous moves around the country later, I came back to the harbor fishing village on the coast of Maine where fishing and seafood and tourism still make the world go round, only now in much larger spirals than then. Though the natives would be the first to disagree with me, and I don’t blame them for it, hardly anything has really changed. To those of us from away who will never be natives, coming back is like the Saturday Evening Post story coming true after all.

On the cove where I live, clammers still dig. Fishing boats still ply the same waters, lobstermen set their traps as usual. The restaurant where I stood by the fire is still there. The cracks in the deck where my tips were always falling to the water below have been covered by a carpeted floor. It’s not the old salt shed anymore.

And wouldn’t you know the owner’s nephew went and grew gray hair, became a town selectman and didn’t even remember me. Forgot about driving me around in his truck one day that summer, rattling off bits of historical lore about landmarks we passed, didn’t even remember taking me along to a shoe store in the city, where I bought a pair of pink suede loafers I’ll never forget. I may not be memorable, but Chet, don’t you remember those loafers?

Karyl’s Headnotes

Since the early days of my experience with Homarus Americanus, the most popular resident of Maine’s waters, other ocean dwellers have moved in and multiplied. Shrimp, mussels and scallops make menus interesting. But this lobster salad remains a keeper in my book.

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drawn by my mom, Karyl, in between bouts of breaking and entering and seafood pilferage

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LOBSTER, CORN AND POTATO SALAD

Serves 4

The Salad

• Four 1 ½-lb live lobsters or 1 ½ lb cooked lobster meat

• 1 lb. small Red Bliss potatoes (not the little “gourmet” ones)

• 3 ears corn

• 2 c. grape or cherry tomatoes, halved

• 1 c. coarsely chopped curly endive (a.k.a. frisée or chicory)

• 1/3 c. sliced scallions

The Vinaigrette

• 2 T fresh lemon juice

• 1 ½ - 2 T. chopped fresh tarragon

• ½ t. Dijon mustard

• ½ t. salt

• ¼ c. olive oil

• Salt & Pepper

Lower the lobsters into a big pot of boiling salted water headfirst, in batches if necessary, and cover. When the water returns to a boil, cook for about 15 minutes. Let them cool.

Using the same water, add the potatoes, bring to a boil and cook until just tender, 15-20 minutes. Transfer potatoes to a colander and cook the corn in the same water, until barely tender, 4-5 minutes.

When lobsters are cool, remove the tail, claw and joint meat and cut into 1” pieces. Cut the potatoes into ¾” pieces and cut the corn from the cobs, holding them vertically and using a sharp knife.

For the dressing, whisk the lemon juice, tarragon, mustard and salt. Add oil in a thin stream. Just before serving, toss the lobster meat, potatoes, corn, dressing, tomatoes, frisée and scallions. Season to taste with salt & pepper.

Amie’s Endnotes

The Saturday Evening Post was a bit before my time, but the Maine island where my family has lived for more than half a century is timeless. Last week at the post office—the same little post office where my mother once shipped thousands of her newsletters to readers far and wide every month—I ran into Maynard, an old classmate from the three-room schoolhouse we both attended through eighth grade. He’s also a lobsterman, and while I briefly considered ordering a few for this recipe, I struggle with cooking them. No judgement here; this truly is a good dish if you like lobster!

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We’ll be covering scallops in an upcoming MEN in MENu issue, when subscriber Rob dazzles us with Coquilles St. Jacques.