Crabs!

I have a confession…I’m allergic to shellfish.

Where I grew up, this isn’t a big deal. There’s no particular stigma attached to an inability to eat crustaceans, any more than people are looked down upon for sneezing under cottonwood trees or in the presence of the neighbor’s dog. But not eat shellfish? This close to the Chesapeake you might as well blaspheme.

It all started around age 6, when I developed an almost unnatural love of shrimp. The first couple of times they made me sick, we chalked it up to overindulgence. After a few bad Red Lobster experiences though, it started to become obvious that I should probably steer clear.

For years, this policy served me well. In upstate New York, shellfish was on the menu, but it wasn’t the star of the show. It wasn’t until college that I even started to consider testing the waters—so to speak.

It had been years since I’d eaten any kind of shellfish, and I’d never been tested for an allergy. Maybe I’d just been imagining it all this time, as my mother had often scolded. Or maybe I’d grown out of it. That can happen, or so I’d like to think. Maybe even, the problem didn’t extend to all the other types of shellfish. I decided I had to know, and there was only one way to find out.

The test subject was an innocent lobster, less than $20 at a New England seafood house. I devoured it with pleasure. And then spent the next few hours lying flat on my back, inspecting the intricacies of the bedroom ceiling.

But a few months later, I moved to Washington, and I found myself confronted by a formidable foe: the blue crab.

I had never dreamed that the local cuisine would make my life so difficult. So far, I have not found a restaurant in the area that does not serve crab in some form. French? Crab bisque. Italian? Crab Antipasto. Mexican? Crab quesadilla. That’s not to mention the numerous seafood restaurants and shacks where they pretty much serve nothing but.

The most taunting of all had to be the Alibi Inn, a tiny, Budweiser-neon-sign-bedecked outpost on the Eastern Shore. I drove by a few times, and each time I felt the stirring of a call to arms. The giant sign reading “$19.99 All You Can Eat Crab Bucket!” nearly brought tears to my eyes.

I felt ashamed that I could never be a true Washingtonian unless I found a way to defeat the blue crab.

Then, at a friend’s for dinner, the main course turned out to be crab cakes, that ubiquitous Maryland dish. They didn’t know my secret! I thought it would be rude to ask for my own meal, and since my allergy’s not fun, but we’re not talking life-threatening throat closing here, I decided to try. They prefaced the meal with an apology that the crab wasn’t the good fresh meat, but processed and frozen, and my hopes lifted. The processing has to get rid of some of that…crabbiness, right?

I ate only one, and I can’t say all was well. But I stayed strong. I powered through a couple hours of sitting on the couch watching TV while I digested the bugger, and by the end of it, I have to say I was glad I did.

Now that I’ve been initiated into the cult of the Chesapeake, I can rest easier knowing that I have a least a little more of a connection to my new home. I’m not saying I don’t wish that there were a few more good pizza parlors, delis, and bagel shops and a few less bisques, dips, and imperials here in DC, but hey, maybe once this summer rolls around I’ll pick up a mallet. Maybe even swing by the Alibi. Somebody pass the Old Bay.