Crabs, hon?

I live in Maryland. People eat crabs here. Well, let me rephrase that. People love crabs here. People crave crabs here. People go bananas over crabs here.

“Yeah, well…” you’re thinking. “So? Lots of people love crab.”

There is a subtle, yet prodigious, difference, however, between “crab” and “crabs.”

“Crab” is crabmeat that has been dutifully, tediously picked from the crustacean already and added to a sophisticated recipe, such as a crabcake, crab dip, or crab imperial. Don’t EVER try to convince a Marylander that it’s okay to eat “crab” anyplace but within the confines of the state of Maryland; he or she will laugh sardonically, turn slightly away from your line of sight, and roll his or her eyes, thinking to him or herself: “what a white trash heathen to sugget that crab is properly prepared anywhere but in Maryland.” Even within the Old Line State, mere non foodies are choosy about their crab; restaurants inside the state’s borders quickly acquire reputations for having a good crabcake… or… well, not. Marylanders raise snobbery to a novel level, to put it euphemistically, about how their crab is prepared.

A different connotation altogether, however, is evoked by “crabs.” By gargantuan contrast, “crabs” are an event: a long afternoon or evening of sitting down with friends or family, mallet in one hand and beer in the other, in front of a huge pile of hot, steamed crabs, deliciously seasoned with Old Bay and ready to be dissected, cave-man-like style.

Whereas “crab” is consumed year-round in a civilized manner with a fork and tablecloth, perhaps accompanied by a nice Pinot Grigio, “crabs” are best enjoyed with a large, rowdy group on a summer day with a versatile brown paper covering (protecting) the table to soak up the Natty Boh (a local Maryland beer), crab guts and intestinal mustards. It is conceivable that a belch or two could be heard.

Notwithstanding the barbaric nature of the tradition (the first people to crack open a crab for food must have been exceedingly hungry), there exists a proper way to pick steamed crabs, and only Marylanders, and the friends and relatives to whom Marylanders have carefully chosen to convey the secret, have the knowledge.

Recently we were invited to our first crab feast of the summer: the picnic tables were covered with heavy brown paper, the steamed crabs dumped into piles strategically in the middle, each person armed with a mallet and knife, the beer bottles distributed accordingly. A toast was made, the beer bottles clinked, and the diners prepared to dismantle the crabs in search of the delectable backfin meat inside.

One among us, an outsider, raised his mallet high into the air, preparing to crash it down, MOST improperly, upon the large back shell of his crab…

The Marylanders, in stunned unison, stared at the New Yorker, transfixed with horror. For a brief moment, no one could speak. Then:

“WHOAH, WHOAH, WHOAH, WHOAH WHOOOOOAAAAH,…what are you doing?!” The silent observers agreed introvertedly.

After the initial shock and a deep breath, the outsider’s friend gasped: “Have you NEVER picked crabs before?” The table listened, anxious for a reply.

“Well, uh… no,” acknowledged the polite, intrepid guest.

“My goodness!” exclaimed the outsider’s friend. “Let me show you how…”

A collective sigh of relief was palpable as the guest learned the proper way to retrieve the meat from inside the crustacean, more beer was consumed, and shells and guts accumulated in piles.

It is officially “crabs” season, so enjoy your seafood responsibly.