Giant Crab Seafood Restaurant

In any world bearing the faintest resemblance to our own, a monstrous crab stationed atop a restaurant door, eight-foot claws ready to clack trespassers in half, would serve as an efficient deterrent.

Who would come within 100 yards of the place? It would be the food-industry equivalent of a castle with a dragon perched on a turret.

The crab would have his way with the frightened hordes, the puny humans suddenly impotent, their hands full of useless weapons.

His laughter would rain down upon them all like ashes!

But we're not in the real world. We're in Suicidefoodland, where reason cowers in the shadows. And where a gigantic crab forfeits his own terrible power in order to welcome people to dine on crabs.

It's only the latest in the tiresome series of so-called submissive dominants, massive brutes who turn down the chance to destroy their attackers and instead submit to a longed-for victimhood. We've seen them many times (for instance, in this post from 2009). And now it's the crab's turn to forsake vengeance and honor. And sense. And crabs.

Alaska Symphony of Seafood

Is that enough? We could go on, all the way back to 1998. But surely this majestic sweep, this nine-year span of our tuxedoed fish impresario, provides a suitable account of the institution known as the Alaska Symphony of Seafood.

What more could you need to know? Year after year, a sophishticate climbs onto the stage and leads the band—out of necessity a different band each time—in a stirring rendition of their own funeral march.

It might feature crooning fish, crustaceans playing chamber music, or be-bopping puffers, but no matter the configuration or style, this is music with heart. With soul! With tender, flaky flesh! It's the perfect accompaniment to imminent destruction and it will reverberate during their elevator ride to heaven.

Sea Host

A charming glimpse at a more innocent world.

A world no less insane than the one we know as the present, but a more innocent kind of insane.

Sea Host appears to have been a chain of seafood restaurants from the late 60s and early 70s. Or not. A chain from the East Coast. Or not. (Details are sketchy and hard to come by.) But it matters not! For regardless of when, where, or why it existed, we are refreshed to see "food" animals presented without even a hint of sex appeal, drunkenness, psychotic rage, or, in fact, anything more alarming than the garden-variety desire to die. Yes, it's come to the point where that is our baseline. We can hardly even remember animals who haven't dedicated themselves to the pursuit of their own deaths, chasing after it like a long-sought treasure.

Sea Host offered up an entire cast of suicidal characters, including these poor souls:

















Sylvester (the titular host), Mr. Big, and Smiley—and the rest of the gang—were all too happy to cater to the wishes of their customers. One can imagine Mr. Big's Cockney slang, Smiley's endearing speech impediment, and Sylvester's belief in the hard-won honor of serving himself, boned and filleted, lying beneath a lemon wedge.

It's almost sad to think about them now, their finest days long behind them. Now that they've died, no more do they have death to look forward to. They've been robbed of what they held most dear.

No! Let's remember them as they were. Not dead, but happily, blissfully, eternally about to die.

(Special thanks to the Waffle Whiffer, who doesn't even know that he helped.)

Cooking with Casseroles

The least practical cookbook of all time!

Judging by the cover—let's please just agree that that's going deep enough—one doesn't cook casseroles; one simply allows a troupe of livestock and crustaceans to pull together a routine and whip something up.

Hence, the cow juggles a couple mushrooms, a scallion, and a pineapple—along with a wok, a pot, and a tureened crab; the crab begins his pantomime act; and the sheep prepares for some classic sleight-of-hand.

And then, the finale: with a flourish, the cow leaps into the oven, the sheep flings herself onto a spit, and the crab drops the lid to seal in his "juices."

It promises to be a magical evening. And you didn't have to lift a finger!

(Thanks to Dr. JJ for the referral.)

Seafood Festivals, a retrospective

For sheer pageantry, nothing beats a seafood festival!

Let's face it: barbecue festivals can be tawdry affairs. Lewd, beastly, tawdry affairs. But seafood festivals are full of wholesome, welcoming energy. The fish, shrimp, crabs, what have you, are thrilled to step on dry land. This is their first foray into the world of humanity, so, unlike the sordid, jaded pigs and cows, they still love us. They've come to put in an honest day's work. To earn a fine, fine death.

They play trumpets and saxophones for us! Guitars! Some kind of thin, flexible piano keyboard things! They put on one-man-band shows for us!

In their winsome naiveté, they honestly believe they owe us something. Perhaps for having been spared the feedlots and pens? For being allowed natural lives, up until the nets trap them in the choking, alien air?
















Even their royalty and their entourages make appearances at seafood festivals. It is also possible that the two non-royal crabs are official decoys, employed to throw off subversive crustacean elements. Then again, what could plotters do to the crabs that their beloved humans aren't already planning?

We are especially touched by the pearl-wearing crab queen and the plucky shrimp she has impaled on the blessed tines of her regal fork!

Finally, we are reminded that it is not only royalty and music-making courtiers who show up for these things.

Garden-variety aquatic fun-lovers are here too!

Here we see a high-roller from Atlantic City and a skipper from Pompano Beach. Each cares enough to gasp their last in our presence, surrounded by their cherished totems: the dice, the weathered plank.












Addendum (5/28/09): Another good time for food and mankind both! These toe-tappers aren't even fazed by the prominent use of the word boil.









Addendum 2 (5/23/10): Another swinging, musical shrimp.














Addendum 3 (5/23/10): This crustacean doesn't so much swing as rock.











Addendum 4 (5/23/10): Look! It's that same darn crab again, creepy leer and all!

Addendum 5 (12/18/11): Another creepy and/or drunk crab.

2007 Kodiak Crab Fest

You'll pardon us for reporting so late on the 2007 crab fest. Mail service from Kodiak, Alaska, is often spotty.

The symbol of last year's Kodiak Crab Fest knows a good time when he sees one. And if it involves getting dunked in boiling water and having his legs wrenched from his body, so be it! All's fair in love and war… And fun!

Kodiak J. Crab's motto might be "It's Just Fun!" but his #1 rule for living is "No Hard Feelings!"

His ability to absolve his, uh, boilers is commendable. And thoroughly craven.







Addendum: Another creature with a peculiar sense of fun. (It's the Lee Turkey Farm turkey of East Windsor, New Jersey!) Whatever else one could say about him, he sure is easy to please! To be charitable, there really is only one word ("everyone") on his placard that gives us pause. Still, that's a 75%. A gentleman's "C." Certainly life on the farm isn't "fun" for, well, everyone.

Westport World-Class Crab Races

Here's how this most sporting event works: officials seed the marina with crabs (we love the word seed here, as though they went and planted crustaceans!), people try to catch them, and then they enjoy the crabs. Their enjoyment takes the form of "rac[ing] crabs on the track" and "stack[ing] 'em on a plate."

And take a look at the representative contestant. The checkered flag, long a symbol of suicidal animals, is hoisted high, like a banner. (We trust we need not explain the symbolism here.) We will remark that the crab is remarkably chipper about what is about to happen to him.

That "I'm a winner!" look on his face is precious. Hey, crab, you're all "winners." In other words, you're all losers.

The conclusion is inescapable: Forgive us, but the Westport World-Class Crab Races are the Special Olympics of crabs.