All Mallet, No Knife

The problem with eating crabs with lesser pickers is timing.

Oh, sure, we can all pick up our first crab at the same moment, but chances are awfully good I'm going to finish first. And not because I'm particularly trying or even because I'm the hungriest. It's just that I pick crabs with a speed that would get me a job at a crab picking plant if I wanted one.

Which I don't.

The whole reason I'm eating crabs in the first place is because I took the train to visit a friend and her main squeeze in Eastport, arriving to find things white because of an early morning snow shower. Driving to her house from the train station, she mentioned that it was restaurant week in Annapolis so she'd made reservations for the next two nights but left tonight open.

That sounded like an opening to me, so I said what I usually say when I visit here: I can always go to Cantler's and eat crabs. Especially in March when it's been months since I last had crabs. But because she'd been there a couple of weeks ago and they hadn't had any crabs, she called to confirm that crustaceans were in the house. The only size they had was large which was plenty good enough for me.

For her, spoiled by the near-constant availability of even larger crabs, it was a matter of making do with what they had. 

The three of us drove to the riverside restaurant in a steady rain, past parked buses that had ferried athletes to the Naval Academy, arriving after the dinner rush had ended. There were exactly four bar stools open and we took over three of them.

"Slow Ride" was blasting from the speakers, causing Boyfriend to look at me and ask, "Is this Foghat?" Sure was. For the rest of the night, it was all '70s all the time. Kind of like Cantler's itself.

But the big news was that they'd run out of large crabs and now had super size crabs. Super, so even more monstrous than the extra larges I'd had on previous visits. Apparently they grow 'em big in Louisiana this time of year.

That's when the disparity in eating began. My friend has been cracking crabs for some 30+ years, yet she was barely halfway through her first crab when she looked over and saw me closing in on finishing my second. "You must be hungry!" she said, but the truth was I'm just a faster picker than she is.

She didn't take kindly to me saying that, but as I pointed out, she didn't grow up having her Dad examine her crab shells and critiquing her picking skills like I had.

The true slow poke was her man who had wisely begun with a dozen Orchard Point oysters to lay a foundation so he wouldn't starve to death. I'd slurped one, mainly out of curiosity after learning that they were raised on the Eastern Shore.

And they had a nice brininess to them, but they were no Old Saltes, I can tell you that much.

My friend did her best to help her man open, dissect and access his crabs, but between inexperience, large fingers and a snail's pace, the man was many crabs behind us and dropping further back all the time. He augmented somewhat with hushpuppies, but the going was slow.

Once I finished eating, I had little to do but watch them eat. Eventually, I killed some time by going to the bathroom to wash my hands twice but when I returned, they were still at it. When I spotted a pile of claws in front of her, I inquired if any of them were mine.

Wrapping her arm protectively around the claws, she informed me, "These are all mine, not yours" and set about cracking them. I glanced over to see how he was doing, only to spot another pile of claws and a full crab.

It seemed only kind to help, so I asked for his claws, assuring him I wouldn't eat a bite. Claw by claw, I opened them and handed them over to him for consumption, for which he was mighty grateful. He seemed to think my kindness was some kind of big deal.

Not so, I told him, that's just how I learned to eat crabs. Growing up, my Mom refused to pick crabs, so when we had a crab feast, everyone - Dad and my five sisters - would each pick a crab  to donate to her. She'd then make herself crabcakes from our efforts.

So picking a little extra for a non-picker or slow picker is just part of my crustacean DNA. No big deal, in other words.

Where I come from, it's the least a girl can do when she gets taken out for supers on a snowy March night.

Even if I did have to wash my hands a third time.

Just One Look

Conclusion: Uber drivers are the new Everyman.

Its easy to say this after a weekend in Eastport and multiple Uber ride conversations with voluble drivers. And why not? Each ride brings new conversational partners.

Driving us to Cantlers' Riverside Inn to eat extra-large crabs at 10 p.m., 80-year old Norman regaled us with his life story.

Interesting as it was that he began working at NASA in the '60s before becoming an engineer for the Department of Transportation, I was most fascinated to hear that he married for the first time at 44. That would be after he retired.

When I asked how his bride was doing, he gushed, "She's 18 years younger than me and she's doin' just great!"

By 1974, Norman had taken a job at the Department of Energy as part of the new solar energy program. When I asked if Jimmy Carter hadn't put solar panels on the White House, he was tickled to death. "Our program did that!" he told us proudly. I didn't bother mentioning how Reagan had ripped them out, though I'm sure he had an opinion on that, too.

Norman's funniest story was about his fellow engineer who'd driven his Jaguar XKE through Huntsville, Alabama in the '70s and gotten a ticket for changing lanes 57 times. Ah, the '70s.

Personally, I'm in awe of the cop who had patience enough to wait through that many lane changes before pulling the guy over.

Saib, the Pakistani who drove us from Cantlers to the Middleton Tavern was a poster child for immigration. A US citizen for 10 years now, he enthused about his wife and 3 kids, the wonderful life they've carved out in this country and his hopes for his children's futures.

When he heard I was from Richmond, he wanted to tell me about his very favorite kebab restaurant, which just happens to be in Richmond and how he'll finish his shift and hit 95 to get there because their kebabs are that good. When 2 1/2 hours is just too much, he'll grab his second favorite kebabs. They're conveniently located in Crystal City, which still seems like a fer piece to drive from Annapolis for a kebab.

Then again, who am I to tell a Pakistani where the best Virginia kebabs are? And why is Maryland so lacking?

When I left my friends at Middleton's listening to a blues band, it was for an Uber ride with a young man who, it turns out, not only grew up in nearby Midlothian but is doing his pre-med at VCU. Currently, he's working at G.W. University (coincidentally where I was born) on a research project. We talked about Richmond the entire four minute drive home and as I exited his car, he thanked me for the dose of home.

Now I ask you, what are the chances I'd climb in the car of a local guy while at the Annapolis waterfront? Apparently pretty good.

Besides absorbing the sagacity of assorted Uber drivers, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting my friend's new main squeeze, a decidedly funny man ("I'm just a pork-eating Jew boy," he cracked after admitting his new-found fondness for pancetta thanks to her) with a passion for music (our pancake breakfast began with Linda Ronstadt, moved through kd lang and settled on Gary Clark) and with the added benefit of being a wine rep.

Translation: he brought scores of Roses (heavy on the Loire Valley and Spain) for us to sip through.

But when it came time to get out the needle to taste Callejon de Crimen Gran Reserva, a pricey and stellar Mendoza Petit Verdot, it was just the two of us since my girlfriend insists on sticking solely to whites and Roses. Her loss, at least when it comes to wine. When it comes to him, I think she's got a keeper.

The funny part is, the last time I was up there was April  when she was still smarting from the breakup of a long-time relationship, convinced she'd never find the right partner for the rest of her life.

Ah, my little petunia, you just never know what the Adjustment Bureau will lay lay at your doorstep.

It's like what Norman the Uber driver told us in parting: "Every new journey happens for a reason."

Allow me to be the first to say amen to that.