A Lobster Tale

"I can’t do it. I can’t eat another roll. You have to help me."

***

That’s me, on the phone with my husband, Scott. It’s 9 a.m., and I’m prostrate in bed in Newburyport. Exhaustion has set in, and my immune system is rejecting the mere idea of seafood. Two months ago, when I agreed to traverse our coast in search of succulent lobster, it seemed like an enviable plan. Three days ago, when I set out on my mission, I was less sure. You see, between the assignment and the road trip, I hit a small—albeit brilliant—speed bump: Turns out, I’m pregnant.

But my taste buds still function and my doctor sent her okay. I packed the car and headed down Massachusetts’s South Shore, then picked up Route 1 to the North Shore and Maine, stopping to test an infinite number of lobster rolls.

New England tourists plan their vacations around tasting our go-to
sandwich, and each year, foodie chat boards like Chowhound and Road Food light up with debates over the best. It’s a worthy argument, for sure, except no one can agree on what a lobster roll actually is. Most think it’s a sandwich of chilled lobster, bound with a dab of mayo and a little celery. Others swear by warm, butter-drizzled meat in a roll. My own criteria are simple: The meat must be sweet, moist, and firm—all measures of freshness—and be a mix of knuckle, claw, and tail. Whatever the dressing, it must be applied with a light hand. Finally, the bread must be a split-top, New England–style hot dog bun, buttered and griddled on both sides.

Testing and re-testing food is my job, so I was undaunted by the idea of roll after roll after roll. Until now. Curled in a ball, I’m questioning my logic. Scott is panicked, and in our mutual hysteria, we decide that the sensible thing is for him to fly up to Rockland—in a tiny commuter plane, in the fog. Did I mention this is our first child?

Sometime later, I call US Airways to check on the flight. "The fog’s come in, so they might have to divert to Bangor," says the control tower. I call back 20 minutes later and get the same answer. On the third call, he relays, "The pilot says he wants to try to land." Try.

***

Here’s the ideal: A seaside shack.
No, make that harborside. A working harbor, where boats unload catch every morning. The hut is tiny, and the menu is brief: boiled lobster, lobster rolls, corn on the cob. There are picnic tables on a dock, and rolls are served with chips and a pickle on the side.

I start making lists. I’ve had many a meal at Barnacle Billy’s in Ogunquit, Maine, but its rolls run about $18 and are quite small. Likewise, the Lobster Shack at Two Lights in nearby Cape Elizabeth seems priced with tourists in mind. I cross both off the list. But I keep another vacationer’s favorite: Red’s Eats in Wiscasset. I’ve heard it described as both the Best There Ever Was and a sorry trap for tour buses.

On the South Shore, at the Back Eddy in Westport, I feel an ocean breeze and think I’ve found seafood nirvana. One problem, though: the Eddy doesn’t serve lobster rolls. I blame my addled first trimester brain and veer to Mattapoisett, where the much less scenic Oxford Creamery commands a view of Route 6. Inside, though, it’s all seaside kitsch, in a good way, and the smell of a Frialator permeates. I approach the first lobster roll of my journey with enthusiasm, and it is… fine. The meat isn’t terribly sweet, but it’s tender, and the bun is perfectly griddled.

Bob’s Seafood Café is just a stone’s throw from Popponesset Beach in Mashpee. I’ve read odes to its rolls: their size, their beauty, their size. Nearly a pound of meat! It’s Labor Day weekend, and the place is packed, with long lines at the take-out counter and lots of crying children. It’s an upscale parenting hell, and suddenly the enormous rolls seem less a marvel than another sign of national excess. It doesn’t help that the meat has clearly been marinating in mayonnaise, causing stringiness. I prepare for my northern sojourn. First stop: Saugus.

***

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