Eating Maine

While on vacation on the beautiful, southern coast of Maine, my wife and I embarked on our annual pilgrimage to find the most inexpensive lobster in the area; a ritual that involves the expenditure of twenty dollars worth of gas in the expectation of saving fifty cents per pound on the purchase of a few pounds of lobster.

The uneducated bargain shopper may think that this is a bit silly; perhaps even counterproductive. Nonsense! The quest is the thing. The quest circumvents all reason. Ah, to feel the undaunted satisfaction of beating those lobster purveyors! Let them sell those over-priced lobsters to the tourists.

We drove around for the better part of a day, in and out of every viable inlet and tributary that held even the slightest possibility of harboring our spiny friends.  We made several stops, gathering and cataloging the intricate pricing details of the succulent little crustaceans when, at the end of a long, arduous day of meticulous reconnaissance, we arrived at a small, unpretentious lobster shack perched high atop the banks of yet another of the numerous rivers in the area.

We entered the small, clapboard shanty and I immediately spotted the price list; a large piece of gray slate that dangled haughtily above the dank, large tanks – tanks teeming with luscious lobster of varying size and hue. I scrutinized each word – every dollar sign – the placement of each decimal point, written in smeared, dusty white chalk.

I summoned a young woman, obscured by a tall stack of lobster traps positioned carefully aside the counter. No doubt, she had hoped to escape my gaze. She had undoubtedly recognized I was no ordinary patron. I was confident. I was prepared. I would not abide defeat. As the noticeably anxious young lady approached the counter, I looked squarely into her apprehensive eyes and addressed her in a direct, cogent tone.

“Good afternoon,” I began, “I have a couple of questions about your lobster pricing.”

The tension was palpable.

“I noticed that your price for a one pound to pound and a quarter lobster is $3.49 per pound,” I stated decisively.

“Yes, that’s correct,” she responded.

I glanced purposefully in the direction of the deceitful, slate price list.

“…and your pound and a quarter to half pounders are $3.99 per pound, yes?” I queried skillfully .

“Yes, that’s right,” the clerk replied.

I took another calculated peek at the price list, squinted, as if to appear confused, and commenced my final assault.

“I’m sorry”, I continued, “Maybe it’s me, but I don’t understand. So how much is a pound and a quarter lobster?”

The clerk appeared befuddled, and annoyed, as she snuck a quick peek up at the price list.

“Uh, $3.49?” she answered, ostensibly uncertain of her response.

The trap was set. I had her now. I had prepared for this moment. I was born for this moment.

“How can that be?” I questioned smugly. “Your sign says that a one pound to a pound and a quarter lobster will cost me $3.49 a pound, does it not?” I continued.

“Yes,” She retorted snootily. “I believe that’s what I said, isn’t it?”

She had lost her cool. I had her right where I wanted her. “So if that’s true,” I asked shrewdly, “and if it’s also true that a one and a quarter pound to one and a half pound lobster is $3.99 per pound, then, according to your pricing, a one and a quarter pounder is both $3.49 and $3.99 a pound. How can that be?”

The look on her face was incalculable. “Umm,” she muttered, staring up at the price list. “Let me get the manager.”

Yes! I had crushed her like a bug – this infidel – this eighteen year old pretender to the vocation of retail.

The smell of victory permeated the cool, salty air. My testosterone raged.

The beleaguered clerk retreated to the back room and, within a few tension-filled moments, a doughty, middle-aged woman of substantial stature approached the counter.

“May I be of assistance?” she asked.

“Your price list is a little confusing, don’t you think?” I chided.

I again posed my questions regarding the lobster pricing, emphasizing my confusion, while stating emphatically that if a perceptive, well-seasoned lobster buyer like me had been confused by this flagrant pricing debacle, the average buyer would be at a decided disadvantage in their pursuit of an equitable purchase price.

The manager and I argued heatedly, at times boisterously, for several minutes; neither of us giving any ground, before she turned abruptly and retreated, in a bit of a huff, to the confines of the back room, leaving me standing there, sans lobster.

As I cunningly contemplated my next move in this strategic jousting match, my wife grabbed me by the arm.

“Enough,” she demanded. “Enough!”

“That’ll teach them to mess with me,” I asserted triumphantly.

I walked out the door and across the parking lot to our SUV, my wife trailing behind, shaking her head and mumbling something inaudible.

She was undoubtedly expressing her admiration of my undaunted fortitude in pursuit of my quest.

Now if only I had some lobster!