You seem crabby

There are stories out of my cooking past that will remain with me forever. I've written about some of them already . There are the sad ones, the lovely ones, and the funny ones. This is one of the funny ones. Back in the days when I was more adventursome, and again, it involves law school, Chinatown, and seafood.

After the rousing success of my whole steamed carp, I went back to Chinatown, several months later, because I decided that for a Friday night dinner, I would make a Maryland crab boil for my roommates and I. I had never made a Maryland crab boil, let alone HAD one, but I was young, brazen, and figured I could do everything and anything. After all, how hard could it be? I had killed an eight pound carp, and hey, I was "Mr Seafood."

Never let arrogance rule you as a cook.

I again went down to Chinatown, and since there were four of us, and we were big guys, I bought three dozen live crabs. If you live near a Chinatown, you know that this is the only way you'll ever find crabs. They're fresh, they're feisty, and they're ridiculously inexpensive. But 36 crabs is a bulky package. So the lovely lady with about six words of English at her command kept on saying "two bags two bags two bags." And indeed, what she did was give me two big shopping bags, doubled, each of which had a dozen and a half crabs in them.

I don't think it was out of any ecological movement, rather, I think it was because they were inexpensive, but the bags she gave me were paper. Those big, heavy brown shopping bags that you see from some department stores, and which are now coming back, since we're supposed to "reuse and recycle." It's amazing how economy can put you ahead of the curve.

Anyway, bags in hand, I headed back to the subway. Back in those days, we used tokens, and I put my bags down and got myself through the turnstile, "not without a struggle" as my friend Bob would say, and headed back uptown.

The ride from Chinatown to Columbia is a straight line, and I was just toddling along on the train. I had my big bags with me, and I was holding onto a pole, in a not that b adly crowded train. The crabs, which were visible to me, but not to anyone else, were clearly crabby - they were NOT happy about this. And as I looked at the bags, I saw a small tear in one of them, and a claw - not the big claw, but the smaller claw - sticking out of the hole. But it wasn't moving, wasn't doing anything.

I remember thinking to myself "thank God they're primitive animals. If they had a mind for it, they could get behind that critter and make a break for it."

From my mouth to the crab's ear. Just as the train is pulling into the station, I hear a tear. And then watch as the bag disintegrates.

And 18 blue claw crabs start scuttling across the floor of the train. Now, New Yorkers are a tough lot. We deal with a LOT on the subways. Rats? No problem? Vermin? PLEASE. Leaky cars and stinky water dripping on us? Yeah, yeah yeah. But we're all used to these things. The crabs were a new element. And there was total pandemonium. Especially since the thought of escape had spread to the second bag, and they made a break for it as well. Now, there were 36 crabs scuttling along the floor of the train, and me, standing there with two, torn shopping bags. Even if I COULD have recaptured those crustaceans, how was I going to get them back home?

Ockham's razor says that "when two solutions present themselves as possibilities, the simpler one is the correct one." Well, the simpler one that day was to get off the train when it stopped. Which I did. After all, what was I supposed to do? I DID leave behind a car of really freaked out people, who hopefully didn't get a good look at my face. I ditched the bags, and headed upstairs. It wasn't that far a walk to the apartment. Maybe fifteen minutes. And I had to do some grocery shopping. Hmmmm. Maybe a leg of lamb with baked potatoes for dinner?

Indeed, that is what we had. And I remember my roommate looking up and saying "I thought we were having crabs. Couldn't you find any?" For whatever reason, I decided not to lie that day. But I gave him "the look." I've been told that at times I give people a stare that freezes them solid and lets them know "don't go there." I don't think I use it much anymore, but I guess I did it then. He paused turned back to his plate and said "great lamb. Are there any more potatoes?"

I fully expected to see the story on the news that night, as part of some human interesty kind of thing, or to see it someday in a Woody Allen movie. It IS a Woody Allen moment, isn't it? Although I think, to be honest, that if Fellini were around, he could probably do something better with it.

Ah, memories. Now when I cook live crab, it's always dungeness. They're huge. Easy to control. And they put them in good, solid boxes for transport. And I have them delivered.

So, you know those stories about strange animals in the NY sewers? Well, if you ever hear about crabs, believe them.