October 26, 2011--Midcoast: Lobster Fra Diavolo

Thinking about Maine is to think about lobster. The best book about the state and its remarkable and diverse history is Colin Woodard’s Lobster Coast. The Homarus Americanus is even featured on Maine license plates. As is the potato in Idaho’s and the orange in Florida. This tells you a lot about all three places.

We have been indulging in lobsters, overindulging, even though they are forbidden to Semitic people. If you are curious about what else is, check Leviticus 11:1-47. All shellfish such as shrimp and clams and mussels, crab and scallops are verboten. But for us, it’s half the reason to have a house here since these are delicious and all are indigenous to Maine. Still, they are unkosher. In my old Brooklyn neighborhood they would disdainfully be labeled traif.

On the other hand, in my old neighborhood there would be a Chinese restaurant on almost every block. This is true for all non-orthodox Jewish neighborhoods. The reason—where better than a Chinese restaurant to indulge in all kinds of traif? Spare ribs, roast pork, and best of all, shrimp with lobster sauce. Traif-on-traif. Jews, like everyone else, like occasionally to do a little transgressing.

Thus, Maine for us is traif heaven. One doesn’t have to go very far to find delectable lobster rolls, steamed lobster, lobster boiled by the bays and rivers, and stuffed lobster. Stuffed, by the way, invariably with shrimp and crabmeat. Traif-on-traif-on-traif.

And in our kitchen, one can frequently find lobster in our fish stew and, as two nights ago, lobster fra diavolo.

I must confess that when we make our own lobster rolls or fra diavolo style, we go to one of the local lobster pounds and buy already steamed lobsters. In effect, since they are steamed (or boiled) while still alive, we leave the killing to others. Just as we do for chicken and beef. But for chicken or beef the slaughtering happens well out of view. Supermarket steaks come already dressed and packaged in Saran. It is all very abstract—the reality of the fate that has befallen the steer or hen.

But for homard, even if you have them steamed to order, before they are lowered into the cauldron, you either have participated in selecting them and/or watched them being plunged, kicking if not screaming, into the bubbling vat. Not the most affecting of experiences, even for a non-PETA person.

Still rationalizations come easily—nature is cruel, we are a part of nature, and it is in our nature to eat vegetables, meat, and all varieties of seafood. All of which have to be harvested or, there is no other way to put this, killed. And so we think more about what to do with the lobster than what is being done to it.

The other day there was a problem: we planned to make fra diavolo for dinner, but all the local places which through the summer we had depended upon to do the steaming were shut down for the season. There were a couple of fishermen coops where live lobster were still available, but the boiling fires had been dampened and we were left with having to come up with an alternative dinner menu.

“But wait,” Rona said while I began to suggest that maybe we could grill some pork chops, “Why not buy two lobsters and . . .”

“And what? Kill them, I mean steam them ourselves?”

“Why not? We are beginning to consider ourselves at least half-time Mainers. We heat the house with a fireplace and propane stove, we do more and more of our own house maintenance chores, we work our own garden, we . . .”

“You mean to tell me,” I interrupted her list making, “that you are willing to let me steam our own lobsters? I thought you weren’t comfortable with that.”

“I’m not. I thought . . .”

“You see what I mean? You’re not comfortable with this.”

“Let me finish. I’m not against our doing our own steaming but I am against asking you to do it.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yes. I mean I want to do it. Not you.”

I think my mouth must have dropped open. When we had an infestation of houseflies Rona absented herself as I raced about swatting them by the score. When a cricket invaded our house she said she didn’t want it killed. That crickets bring good luck to a house. (Though she did a quick reversal when one cricket became a dozen. That much good luck we didn’t need and so the swatting commenced.) And she cringes when local friends who hunt talk about eating what they kill. So I thought . . .

Before I could complete that thought she had directed me to the Pemaquid Coop, the oldest in Maine, established right after the Second World War by returning veterans, a place that looks as if it has not undergone any form of change or fixing up since the 1940s. In other words—very authentic, very atmospheric to the eye of half-time Mainers.

The place felt deserted. “All the fishermen must be out in the bay” I ventured, “Pulling traps. Maybe we should just forget the whole thing. We have boneless pork chops in the frig,” more traif, “and we can get some nice . . .”

“Let’s see if we can find someone,” Rona snapped as determined as I ever remember her.

And wouldn’t you know it, before I could come up with another suggestion for dinner—maybe defrost that chicken pot pie we’ve been meaning to have—a grizzled lobsterman in knee-high rubber boots shuffled out of the shed.

“How can I help you folks?” he asked smiling. “Sure beautiful out this afternoon.” He let his eyes sweep across the harbor.

Stepping in front of me, Rona said, “It sure is a nice time of year.” He continued to smile as if proud of his waterfront. “We’re hoping you have some fresh lobsters. We could use a couple of pound-and-a-quarter-pound-and-a-half hardshells? We’re making fra diavolo this evening.”

“I think I can accommodate that. My wife prepares that too. Do you make your own tomato sauce? That’s the right way. You can still get some local tomatoes. Reilly’s has them. I got some there yesterday after I got done here.”

“You’ll have to ask him about the sauce,” Rona said. He’s the cook,” she gestured back over her shoulder in my direction. “I do the buyin’ and some of the prep work; he does the cookin’. Though tonight I’m gonna be steamin’ the lobsters.”

“You sure we can’t get any already . . .” I squeaked.

Rona cut me off again. I was sure she was smirking. Ignoring me she asked, “Can I help pick ‘em out? I like the liveliest ones. A friend here told me—a local person—that they’re the freshest and tastiest.”

“All the ones I have were brought in just a few hours ago. Though the price is hurtin’ us again. We were doing OK through the summer but right now I’m worried about how we’re going to get through the winter.”

“Any reason for that?” Rona asked, “With gasoline prices a little lower I woulda thought you guys would be doin’ at least as well.” I noticed that Rona was being careful to drop her g’s.

“Some of it’s supply and demand. The economy’s still lousy and folks must already be cutting back in anticipation of the holidays. If the choice is a lobster dinner in a fancy restaurant or Christmas gifts for the kids, that’s an easy one. Though not an easy one for us. We have kids too. But you folks are still on holiday. You don't need to . . ."

“We sort of live here too,” I said, still half-hidden behind Rona who moved to her left in an attempt to obscure me further. Again, I decided not to finish my thought.

“So come on down here to the dock with me,” he beckoned to Rona, “That’s where I got the hardshells stashed. We don’t have to talk about my problems. Your husband there I can see is eager to be getting to his fra diavolo.”

“Not until I do my thing,” Rona muttered to herself.

Down on the floating dock—I remained up by the shed—Rona leaned over the edge so she could get a better look into the container that held the lobsters while the lobstermen peered at the tangle of clearly lively hardshells. I could see them thrashing about even from a distance.

“How do these two look to you?” I could hear him ask, holding two struggling lobsters aloft. Rona moved closer to get a better look at them. I could see her smile and nod her approval. He had a paper bag and somehow managed to get them both stuffed into it. It was a good thing, I thought, that they had two sets of rubber bands around their claws. I would have been impossible to bag them otherwise.

Back in the shed he weighed them—exactly three pounds. “That’ll be eighteen even,” he said. Rona fished in her wallet for a twenty. “See what I mean about the prices? Two months ago these here would have set you back about 25 bucks.” With resignation he shrugged his shoulders.

“We’ll only here a couple more weeks,” Rona said, "But if you’re still open maybe we’ll come back for some more. We, I mean he, want to make one last seafood stew. You don’t have any clams and mussels I suppose?”

He shook his head. "Just bugs. I mean lobsters. But we'll still be here. We're open all year." And then acknowledging me, still half behind Rona, as we turned to leave, he said with a wink, “I hope that fra diavolo of yours turns out OK.”

To be concluded tomorrow.