Soon we were seated, our beers still three-quarters full. Our server greeted us with a cheerful, “my name is Mai, my sister Tai is at home. My mom doesn’t drink; I don’t think she got the reference.” She asked us if we needed a few minutes, which of course we didn’t.
We each ordered our 3 course menu: crab chowder, king crab, bread pudding for me. jambalaya, king crab, and bread pudding for Justin. Yes, we would like that with the “full house” seasonings. She took our menus.
The pair next to us appeared to be mother/daughter, sharing a pitcher of beer and a bag of king crab legs. The mother leaned over conspiratorially and whispered, “excuse me, this is my first time. Are there no plates? How are we supposed to eat the potato?” She pulled a baby red potato out of her bag of crab legs, dripping with butter and seasoning, a questioning look in her eyes. We calmly explained no, there are no plates. you are supposed to pick up the potato and eat it. along with everything else. “It’s fully contact,” I added.
Two tables over, a couple was getting trashed. We had seen them at the bar ordering oysters and shots of vodka. In case that wasn’t enough to do their stomachs in, they were steadily working on a bottle of red, a bottle of white chilling on the side of the table. We caught snippets of their conversation – entirely lopsided toward the woman – which got progressively louder as the evening progressed. “So are we gonna eat crab or not?” No response. “This [wine] tastes like apples and pears.” Silence. “This tastes like apples and pears. It’s my wine and that’s what I call it.” Brief nod… they left the restaurant to smoke. and fight. Twice. Later in the evening, more comments. “You pay for everything, you saved my life” (imagine exaggerated hand gestures). To the server: “Oh, we used to be married and we aren’t anymore. but we still love each other and now we’re here. We’re old farts.” plenty of cussing. and drinking. Dinner and a show.
The food came. Appetizers were never the crab hut’s strong point, so Justin finished both mine and his. Then came the entree: a plastic bag filled with butter, seasonings, garlic, corn-on-the-cob, sausage, baby potatoes, and of course, crab legs. We dipped our already-saturated bites into a light lemon-salt-pepper-mixture. The taste… how do you describe such things? Only that it is the best meal I’ve ever had, every time. I wore the gloves to keep my hands from smelling like garlic and fish for the next few days, but they didn’t seem to work as advertised (although the bib which read “I like it dirty at the Crab Hut” did save my shirt on numerous occasions. Too bad I couldn’t pull up my sleeves).
I couldn’t eat more than a bite of bread pudding although it tasted good, topped with a light vanilla sauce. I’m salivating thinking about the dinner, and if I could handle all that food two nights in a row, I’d go back again.