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Top Feeders
Not eating them here would, of course, be tantamount to bypassing the pyramids while in Egypt. In this New England town, the creepy-crawlies are not only the backbone of industry and tourism, they’re the stuff of lore and love. During my few days here, I was on a quest to make every square meal a lobster one: I had lobster stew, lobster rolls, lobster Cobb salad and lobster pizza. I had lobster steamed, grilled and boy-oh-boy boiled. I even had lobster ice cream, available at Ben & Bill’s Chocolate Emporium, located on – where else? – Main Street. “It makes the news every few years,” someone told me when I confessed to trying the deep-sea cone. (But did I scream for it? No. It tasted like vanilla.) I wasn’t exactly a lobster virgin when I arrived in Bar Harbor, but I wasn’t the Mick Jagger of lobster either. Arriving in Maine was like entering the lobster equivalent of Hugh Hefner’s mansion because this part of the world’s sea floor is so densely populated with them; as far as you can see, lobster trappings lie in wait in these rocky waters like tiny, white golf balls lost at sea. And this is where I had my own high-impact lobster immersion. Part of the lure of eating them, I discovered – besides the delicious political incorrectness of cooking them (“Consider the Lobster,” David Foster Wallace begs you) – is the elaborate ceremony associated with the meal, complete with bibs, butter and disparate instruments like lobster crackers and tiny forks. Is this a meal or a surgical procedure? In their bright-red cooked state (not to be confused with their raw state, in which they’re the sickly hue of a Dickensian chimney sweep), lobsters make good kitsch. Let’s just say that claw-shaped oven gloves are easy to find in the local gift shops. But they do get a day of rest on Sundays, when it’s strictly forbidden to fish them. As one local expertly explained, “You can eat ’em like a bastard. You just can’t kill ’em.” These days, lobster is the undisputed scene stealer here. If Bar Harbor were a movie, the lobster would be played by Judi Dench. Not that it has much competition. The biggest celeb that this part of the USA can lay claim to is shockmeister Stephen King, who lives over in the next town. (Catch a big whiff of the lush, rolling fog in this part of Maine, and all is explained about Stephen King.) Oh, and Martha Stewart reportedly has a place nearby on the coast. One day, though, another well-known face turns up in the lobby of the chaste and perfectly situated Harborside Hotel where I’m staying. It’s Leeza Gibbons, the long-time celebrity journalist! I smile and can’t help but wonder: Is a certain lobster about to get its close-up? Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
