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LOBSTER POTTED 10/10/2010 6:10:34 AM
(written 10/10/10 at 10:10 AM EDT)
The debate has raged unabated for many decades among parents-to-be, in-laws and outlaws, ob-gy types, casual friends and neighbors-—even grandparents-—whether or not one should be apprised of the unborn baby’s sex.
So, on October 1 Chris and I drove to Memphis to accompany daughter Alex and son-in-law Phillip to the doctor’s office where the ultrasound camera revealed the new baby would be-—a boy!—-upon delivery in early March 2011.
To celebrate, we turned the sojourn into a week’s vacation (so to speak.) It was not, in any sense, like the time we went to Maine. For one thing, I drove Cadillacs back then; now we tour in an eight year old Buick.
The first time we vacationed in Maine, however, was a lifetime ago, in September 1985 to be exact. At a rented cottage at the shore near Kennebunk, we shared an idyllic week with Gordon and Debi Elliott and their daughter Amanda, as well as Sharon and Bob Fleming and their children Matthew and Kirsten.
It was a special time for us, the first vacation ever with our brand new, 9-month-old daughter Alexandra (today an old woman of twenty-five, a 3rd grade teacher at St. George’s in Memphis, married to a burgeoning dentist, and as mentioned within a few months of becoming a mother herself.)
As the late Gordie Elliott might, in his clipped Anglican accent, say, “A lot of soap has been lodged under the old wedding ring!” since we first became addicted to Maine lobster.
And addicted we still are! Debi and Bob, now an item since Gordon’s untimely demise and Sharon and Bob’s divorce, have shared countless meals with us, dining on boiled lobster at the rented cottage near Kennebunk, at Wormwood’s Restaurant in Saco, Me, at home in Brighton, NY, as well as Oakville, Ontario, Canada.
I mention all this because of a newspaper article that recently caught my eye about a haven for lobster rolls called Red’s Eats, a roadside seafood shack on Rt. 1 in Maine in the village of Wisgasset. Red’s, like most tourist traps that feature any lobster enticement, apparently has a fanatical following, and it sits along the highway just before the bridge out town.
Because of it, traffic in summer is a nightmare, and rumor has it the federal government is willing to allocate millions to build a bypass around the village (one of a number of ideas being debated by those concerned.)
Although we never patronized the place, we lunched often on luscious lobster rolls at a diner in Freeport. The highlight came, however, the night we discovered Wormwood’s Restaurant in nearby Saco.
It is, even today, not the most elegant eatery in North America—in fact, some discretionary diners say it is rather shabby; “not dirty, it just seems that way.” To us, it was—well, shall we say “rustic.” And the boiled lobster, of course, was exquisite!
Anyway, since our discovery in 1985, we have visited Wormwood’s on other occasions. One time was prior to 1993, and I remember it for two reasons: the incomparable boiled lobster and the people at the next table.
While we were a party of six or so, they were a raucous lot of ten or more. And, horror of horrors, they were from Western New York and recognized me!
Now, don’t misunderstand. When you are a minor celebrity and hundreds of miles from home, it’s always fun to be recognized. But in Maine? In Saco? In Wormwood’s? With solid, respectable citizenry from sedate and sophisticated Southern Ontario (Oakville, a suburb of Toronto, no less!) Come on, gimme a break!
“Sonofagun, look who’s here!” “Hey, you’re Bob Mills, ain’tcha?” “What goes with the weather, Bob?” (For a quarter century I had been the TV weatherman back home.) “Whatcha eatin’? Lobster? Us, too!” “What brings you to Maine?” “We been shoppin’ at L.L. Bean—-you, too?” “Where you stayin’? We’re at the Holiday Inn!” “Been to see George Bush yet?” “You doan eat that green stuff, do ya?”
It went on and on. To their credit, none in my party ripped off their bibs and stormed out, but the annoying banter went on until dessert.
Finally, the tourists from Western New York left after having me sign everything from menus to crumpled napkins.
When they were gone, Gordie said, “You American blokes are an odd breed. In Britain, they’d have joined us, bought a round or two, and picked up our checks. The least we could have done is reciprocate with some drinks.”
Luckily, they were long gone, whoever they were.
A few years later, I happened to be in New England on business. To honor Gordie who had recently shuffled off his mortal coil, I drove up to Saco and dined alone on fabulous boiled lobster at Wormwood’s. To punctuate the evening, I ordered a bottle of excellent Merlot and, in absentia, toasted my old friend before every course. Because we had shared many flagons over the past years, I especially missed him that evening at Wormwood’s.
Well lubricated with the oil of reminiscence, I thought of the night we had been besieged by the Western New York zombies.
It was as if I could hear Gordie still: “Come on, Robert, be a sport. Admit it. You knew they’d be there, didn’t you?”
