Lobster Orthodoxy

Those who know ... a proper lobster roll this past weekend

Not far from where my parents live is a small family-owned farm stand, operated by the same family and selling produce from their family farm for almost 200 years. Their salt box building is from the 1750’s, was one of the first post-offices in the United States of America, and it is about a half-mile from where the Pilgrims came ashore and settled in 1620. The people at Bramhall’s Country Store know what they are doing.

While it is true that the Maine seacoast is ground zero for lobster in the same way that Vermont is the epicenter of all things maple and the Lower East Side is the Promised Land for deli, cured salmon, decent knishes and so much more … ooph, sorry, focus … Bramhall’s provides important and valuable lessons about one incredibly vital New England food item. I’m talking about lobster rolls.

In my orthodox epicurean world view, the lobster rolls at Bramhall’s are as important for what they do not have as what they do have. No, it is not a “lobster roll sandwich”. No, it most definitely is not “lobster salad”. No, there is absolutely no mayonnaise involved. Not ever. Never. What you do to their lobster rolls if you decide to take them home is totally up to you: go ahead, put some curry powder or aioli on it, some chives, or maybe just a sprinkle of sea salt; just don’t tell me about it. Like all proper lobster rolls, Bramhall's includes the following: a buttered, toasted, top-split hot dog bun; and a huge pile of fresh coarsely chopped lobster from a happy creature recently pulled from the saltwater tanks right outside and boiled alive and whole. Period. Serve it with quality potato chips because, well, it is New England. Although driving there and taking the lobster roll home is convenient, sitting at a picnic table underneath the enormous ancient oak trees that cast their cooling shadows over the farm stand on a hot summer day while listening to the symphony of the birds and bees in the branches above is like hearing Handel live in a cathedral instead of using your ear buds to listen while in a spin class at your local gym. The “jumbo” version of Bramhall’s lobster roll includes, wait for it, half a pound of lobster.

And another thing … in all of the seasons I’ve spent in New Zealand and over the last few years while I’ve been in Colorado, one of the things I’ve missed the most about home is the fresh corn in late summer and early fall. I know people here in Colorado are proud of the corn from Paonia, but it’s just not the same and while I applaud their pride I do believe that they don’t know any better. The corn from my home village in the Housatonic Valley is my favorite, of course, but innumerable nooks and crannies in rural New England and Upstate New York produce corn with a complexity that is unspeakably delicious. Maple syrup comes out of trees and is simply boiled down to its essence to be insanely good; New England lobsters come out of the sea and are boiled until the shells are bright red and the flesh is outrageously yummy, and the same is true of fresh, local corn. When I rocked up to Bramhall’s recently to dive face first into a lobster roll, one of their young staff had just started unloading a bushel of corn that had been picked that morning. I bought six of them. Good Lord.

Yeah, yeah, I get it. I do focus some of my Yankee homesickness on the food here in Colorado and how I feel about it. Yes, yes, the very idea that there is yellow colored cheddar in the supermarkets makes me want to cry almost as much as the maple flavored corn syrup does. Who would do that to their cheddar? Do they dye their cows yellow too? Come on people! An uncomfortable reality of my life here is that good food and good restaurants are almost exclusively outrageously expensive. Together with the fact that dinner parties where we all get together and cook for each other are not a regular feature of life here in the way that they are among my friends in Vermont or in Wanaka, New Zealand and it makes great meals rarer than they should be.

I do have some friends here that know how to cook and like to sit, have a chat, help each other out in the kitchen, and enjoy each other’s company, and those evenings are worth their weight in gold. I recently had an evening with a terrific group of ex-pat Vermonters where we waxed nostalgic for our home town while complaining about yellow cheddar and other oddities in the midst of enjoying a truly wonderful meal cooked all day by one of our own. It’ll happen again, zero doubt.

Ultimately, the point is to appreciate my friends and family while we break bread together. And if that means expressing our love via angst about our food options and their cost, so be it. As native New Yorkers and New Englanders, we understand better than most that expressing angst is an important form of entertainment in and of itself.

So, put the mayonnaise down and walk away. Sir, step away from the mayo and, I beg you, do not let that mayo come in contact with the lobster!

Bramhall's Country Store

Lobster tanks and fresh picked corn.

Particular thanks to the wonderful people at Bramhall's Country Store for helping me find a (not so) little slice of Heaven during my recent trip home. http://www.bramhallcountrystore.com