The Kodachrome Lobsterman of Montauk
(continued)
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“How about those steamers?” I’d finally caught the bartender’s full attention.
“Those are steamed little necks,” he corrected me. “Is that what you want?”
“Yeah, they look good. I’ll take an order of those, just like this guy next to me is having.” I say this with
confidence, as I know for a fact the obvious difference between steamers and steamed little necks. I’ve been
around clams. I know my clams.
“You got it, buddy. Coming right up.”
The lobstermen, all sorted out now, standing and leaning around the end of the bar, call their orders to the
bartender, who seems very familiar with all of them.
“A bottle of Bud.”
“A draft.”
“A 7 and 7.”
“A Jack on the rocks.”
There is one empty bar stool, to my left, separating me from the defrosting lobstermen. I take it as a buffer
between my world and theirs. None of them had grabbed it, so it remains empty for a while. That’s okay, I
think. The sun is setting and I’ve got a good two-hour slow ride back west, and I want to get going soon to
see the setting sun over the ancient Montauk dunes as I head back on curvy, hilly Old Montauk Highway.
After I get my steamed little necks, that is. My mouth is watering as I watch the guy next to me dipping his
bread into luscious clam juice.
The bartender slaps down a paper napkin and a fork in front of me, along with well-worn wooden salt and
pepper shakers. The lobstermen get their drinks right after I get my eating gear.
They savor their first sips, shaking off the bone chill from being out on the ocean all day. It’s a cool, clear
day on land, with bright, bright sunshine, about forty-eight degrees. Drop that temp a solid fifteen degrees
out on the water, add in some wind chill not cut much by heavy sweatshirts, thermal overalls, and weather-
beaten fishing caps, and then think about how warm the cold beer and mixed drinks must feel by comparison.
All the fishermen coming back from the sea have to pass The Dock on their way to their trucks; it’s at the
end of the commercial fishing dock. It’s in a perfect spot, irresistible. The battered old building offers comfort
like a beacon to the weary seamen and occasional travelers who stray from the more accommodating-
looking eating and drinking establishments along the working waterfront.
My food comes next, and I’m starting to feel warm and happy, just the way the lobstermen look. I immediately
break off a piece of the thick-crusted bread and plunge it right into the rich clam broth, hot and overloaded
with chopped garlic and black pepper and parsley. About fifteen or more half-opened fresh, small clams are
stacked up and steaming in the broth. I ignore the fork and just use my hands for this meal. Each clam is
ready to eat in its own individual shell serving tray. The food stays piping hot as I eat it, top to bottom.