Dinnertime found me tucked into my Econo Lodge room, all my reports filed, my laundry freshly done and folded in Bristol fashion, and my stomach agreeably anticipating a solid meal. Expense would be no object; I was prepared to blow as much as twelve bucks. Down the street stood an imposing Chinese restaurant with red tiles on the roof and gigantic brass door handles obviously filched from Castle Frankenstein. Inside, the dim lighting revealed teakwood panels depicting various fat Mandarins and Buddhas reposing on silk pillows while coy maidens danced demurely around them. The waiters all had red vests. In other words, a classy joint.
I chose the buffet, with a lemonade apertif. The steaming aluminum carts sparkled with seafood. I would not stint. After a cup of hot and sour soup I sauntered up to the crab legs and took a round dozen on my plate.
Now the comedy, or, rather, tragedy, began.
Gentle reader, please remember that as a child of the Midwest I experienced nothing more saltwater than fishsticks on Fridays. Then, druing the hectic and threadbare years of marriage & child-rearing there was not a kopeck to spare for anything Atlantic or Pacific from the supermarket freezer. Besides, the kids hated fish as if it were homework. So I am not what you might call skilled in the ways of seafood. I can dig into a red snapper with relish or savor the latex qualities of calumari, but, sad to say, the crab legs were beyond me.
I seemed to recall that you sucked the meat out of crab legs, like marrow out of a bone. So I began to suck. And suck. And suck. The drawn butter had grown cold and congealed while I made like a human vacuum cleaner. Obviously, this was not how you got the meat out of crab legs. I glanced covertly around me to see if anyone else was eating them, for a clue or hint on how to proceed. But everyone else was tucking into the pot stickers and Kung Pao chicken. Next I tried cracking the legs open with my teeth, but the spines discouraged such outre behaviour. But hunger is the mother of invention. I broke those crab legs in half and then stuck a chop stick up 'em to dig out the meat. No go. I blew into a halved crab leg, somewhat like Dizzy Gillespie on the horn, to see if I could force the meat out. Nope. Perhaps it was my imagination, but by this time I thought I could hear barely muffled snickers from my fellow gourmands. I thought my luck had changed when I glanced over at a stout man with piggish little eyes who was holding up a crab leg; he would surely show me how it was done. But no, I was simply gazing at my own reflection in one of the many mirrors that laced the walls.
Finally one of the red-vested waiters took pity on me. Gliding silently by, he laid a nutcracker on my table. Aha! So that's how it's done. I grappled no longer, but took up my sturdy instrument and began to massacre those accursed crab legs. Alas . . . the result was disappointing -- to say the least. Nothing was in those crab legs but some milky liquid and a flyspeck of meat -- not enough to fill a thimble. Hands slimey, brow furrowed, stomach unappeased -- I threw in the towel, after wiping my chin on it. Humbly I shambled back to the buffet for fried rice and crab rangoon.
Now you know the ugly truth -- about crab legs. They belong to that food group I call airfeed. This group includes artichokes and bar-b-que ribs. I have worked up a sweat peeling artichokes to no purpose and have chewed on ketchup and gristle masquerading as bbq ribs until my teeth squeaked. To all these insubstantial frauds I say BAH! The next time I want seafood I'll get a can of sardines or some pickled herring. And I won't pay anything like twelve bucks for it, either.
Mortgage rates near historic lows. Refinance $200,000 loan for as low as $771/month*
No comments:
Post a Comment