The Boss

STONE-WALLED

 

Summer isn't quite here yet, but I am really ready for it. Just walking past O'Broski's Inn makes me salivate. There is a mental smell about it that lingers from last spring. Spices, lots of spices, tempt my imagination. Even the heavy dose of salt curls into my nose. Hamilton Ave. is empty except for the garbage truck clearing away remains of steamed shrimp, crabs, beer cans, paper bibs. I must bide my time, hold on to the thought that mid-June will eventually get here so I can eat myself to death. Crab season waits for me. I wait for it.

 

Joe Obroski doesn't need it, but he still buys a full page ad in the Evening Star that he will be ready for the stone and steamed  crab eaters Fri. June 16th. In bold black letters it invites the entire town to 'COME ON IN to Obroski's Inn. ' The place will be a mad house as Joe doesn't accept reservations. He has foolishly held tables for groups many times, groups who change their minds, ask for another evening. He gripes angrily and mentally keeps record of these pains in his ass, gives them little attention and not the big, full, delicious crabs that are served steaming hot. Let them go elsewhere.

 

But his attitude does not pertain to me. I am greeted with a strong slap on my back. My friends have plenty of brown paper in front of them for the goop and shells that will be taken to the kitchen while another order is already on its way to us.

 

Ny pal ,Chuck,  waits for no one. He makes a grab for crabs as they drop kerplunk on the table. His uncanny ability to see thru the claws amazes us time and time again. Each claw releases white meat. Cold Heineken, Miller's Light stand momentarily at attention. As soon as Chuck slams his mallet down on the biggest claw in the bunch, we all dig in. Hammers sound from every table. The beers need replacement. Shells disappear into huge black plastic bags. Steamers must come from god himself. They seem to be endless.

 

Something is amiss. Two of my cracked open claws are empty. Only water comes out. I look at the other folks and they are happy, sucking the white out in one large lump. I tell no one, make no complaint. The pile of crabs gets smaller. One loud whistle to Barry, our waiter, and another two dozen crabs stare at us with large grey dead eyes. This time I don't bother looking into the empty claw shell, just lay it in the garbage pile and pull back the shell where the really good white meat is supposed to be. Water runs out. There is no meat of any color. I pretend each empty crab was so great, I devoured it in seconds. Something is definitely wrong. I wave wildly for Barry's attention. 'Barry, how about a large bowl of Joe's special highly seasoned crab soup? Throw in a couple of lump claws.' It arrives on a metal tray. The sound of boiling reminds me of Ravel's Bolero. My mouth is watering for the Old Bay Spice that fills the air around me.

 

No one else has ordered the soup. They continue to pick at the crabs, suck out the water, ask for another dozen. Within five minutes the new batch slides onto the brown paper. Melinda looks at the poor dead crabs, stands up and says loud enough for the next table to hear her,
'Anybody besides me ready to admit the crabs tonight are terrible? Lots of gray water and almost no lump meat.'

 

Joe is at our table in a second. He is in a huff, angry that a customer has the nerve to criticize his steamers. The lady shows him her empty shells that had nothing in them before or after she cracked them. 'Take a look, a good look, Joe.' 'Mrs. Fink. I apologize,' he responds. 'Just sit where you are. Barry, bring these nice people two dozen more steamers–no check.'

 

Mrs. Fink is empowered. She stands and looks Joe straight in the eye. 'Not one good crab out of four dozen so what makes you think two dozen more will be better?' Joe feels ill, dizzy. Such a thing has never happened at Obriski's Inn since he opened for business twenty years ago. He takes an unused mallet off the table next to Mrs. Fink's and bangs it like Judge Judy when she is offended. A hush comes over the Inn.

 

'Everybody, everybody, pass your checks to me. Watch carefully as I tear them to pieces. My supplier will never set foot in my castle again. Leave your names and phone numbers at the cashier's and I will personally send each of you 2 dozen perfect crabs here at my place same time next week–

 

OR–for those of you who prefer to make a definite reservation, just ask for Joe. Stop in the kitchen when you get here, stay away from the steaming pots and watch the crabs die. You'll have the best of the best.'