Boston Seafood Tour

My family and I took a weekend trip up to Boston recently for the missus' 15th year college reunion.  I've never been the reunion type.  Tony Soprano said it best - "...'remember when' is the lowest form of conversation."  What else can you talk about with someone you occasionally played beer pong with or sat next to in Intro to Western Civ?  They also seem like shameless networking and bragging sessions.  The amount you hear - "So, what do you do?" - is brutal.  "I'm a lead attorney and vice president for DLA Piper."  "In finance right now, but working on a tech start up."  "Tenured professor at Tufts, and we summer on the Cape."  Who knew "summer" could be used as a verb?  I enjoyed throwing people off with my response of "well, I play soccer, eat seafood, garden, hang out with my kid, a lot of Netflix and Phillies baseball."  It was fun watching them squirm to get out "oh, I meant for a living, what do you do for a living?"  And though I had no frame of reference for the former co-eds in their heyday, Joan Cusack's line in Grosse Pointe Blank resonated with me - "I went to my reunion, it was just as if everyone had swelled."  

I'm kidding.  These were my preconceptions of reunions.  I was pleasantly surprised how nice the experience was, and of course am joking on the "swelling" part.  Everyone was lovely, both in appearance and conversation.  I did come to realize that a college reunion is a wonderful chance to get all your friends together in one place, if you can reach a critical mass in attendance.  They're particularly opportune if those friends are strewn about the globe, as was the case here.  And while rubbing elbows on the quad over mediocre tapas and poor deejaying isn't my cup of tea (woohoo! Boston!), I did in fact have a splendid time.       

The 30+ restaurants or markets I'd considered
for my seafood tour of Boston

More importantly, there was a Saturday afternoon interlude in which I could sneak away to explore Boston's seafood scene.  Cape Cod oysters, Ipswich clams, scrod, lobster rolls, and of course, New England clam chowder.  There's certainly no shortage of seafaring history, culture, and cuisine when it comes to Boston.  Unfortunately, the four to five hour window I had couldn't do any of this true justice.  My journey would be more like Paul Revere's in length than Israel Bissell's (definitely check Bissell out if you're not familiar).  I was limited by time, geography, and hours of operation.  Such is life as a parent, and for the brownie points, I'll say "I wouldn't change a thing."  I did some research, consulted some Boston-familiar friends, and put together a respectable mashup of classic, trendy, and eclectic eateries.  Apologies in advance for the innumerable gems omitted from this tour.  So, after hugs and kisses to my almost-napping toddler and eye-on-the-time fiancé, I jumped in a cab and headed to the city. 

Two of Saltie Girl's Four Menus:
Raw Bar and Main

First stop was Saltie Girl in Back Bay.  This place gets busy as ever for Saturday brunches, and since they don't take reservations, I needed to get there early.  Opened in 2016 by Kathy Sidell, Saltie Girl was hyped as a pint-sized 30-seat restaurant hawking Barcelona-inspired seafood, right next to its parent restaurant, MET Back Bay.  It proved so successful that it took over MET Back Bay's space in mid 2020 and more than tripled in size.  Even arriving at 11:15 am, just after they'd opened, the place felt overwhelming.  Scores of patrons in the street, patio, bar, upstairs and downstairs dining rooms.  Dozens of staff scurrying around with smoked salmon benedicts and fried lobster & waffles.  I nestled into a corner seat at the bar, and I swear, the bartender averaged making ten Bloody Marys a minute my entire meal. 

Fried Clams, Raw Platter
Live Rokke Scallop Crudo 

Being busy definitely isn't a bad thing for a restaurant, nor its guests necessarily.  But when that carries over to the menus, it can be.  Nothing looked bad, it was just too much and again, overwhelming.  Toasts, crudos, oysters, tartares, pastas, sashimi, terrines, burgers, caviar, fried fish.  Overkill, literally.  I was originally keen on ordering some tinned seafood (more on that later), but that menu was 100 items alone.  And beyond those tins, nothing really struck me as Catalan, as Saltie Girl was originally branded.  I decided on a modest mix of dishes.  I had to save room for the rest of the tour, but wanted a good representation.  Some raw, some crudo, some fried, some fancy.  I ordered three different oysters, a top neck clam, and a Jonah crab claw.  Seeing Jonah crab on menus excites me.  It was largely ignored when I was growing up on the East coast, deemed as inferior to the blue crab or lobster, and often considered by-catch or a nuisance. However, regulations and over-fishing of other species have seen the Jonah crab's popularity grow.  And it's quite delicious, kind of like a poor man's Dungeness crab.  As for the oysters, unfortunately all were a bit lean and bland.  It was the summer, a poor oyster season, so I couldn't expect top quality or hold that against them.  They were a little butchered and bellied in their shucking, though.

Foie Gras & BBQ Eel
(Unagi) Toast

The fried Ipswich clam bellies didn't disappoint.  Crunchy, salty, and slightly sweet with that intertidal gaminess only clams have.  The intoxicating aroma of fried clams alone is enough reason to order them.  Ipswich clams, more crassly known as piss clams, are rarely found outside of New England.  If they aren't on your Boston culinary bucket list, right next to chowder and lobster roll, you've got some reassessing to do.  The scallop crudo with green garlic sauce was clean, refreshing, and pretty decent.  What impressed, though, was the seared foie gras & BBQ eel toast with sesame and shisho.  I have a mixed relationship with foie gras, I'll admit, in that it feels both over and under appreciated.  There's a pervasive hatred and a counter-culture love of it.  Politics and production methods aside, I overindulged on foie gras while working in the industry as it was always on hand.  It lost its mystique and appeal.  A few years later, having been out of restaurants for some time, I miss it, particularly when seeing the price tags as an average patron.  Either way, it's delicious, and Saltie Girl's pairing with unagi on toast was a delightful bite.  The decadent, fatty foie gras matched the eel's briny sweetness well, and was all illuminated by the bright shiso and Japanese BBQ sauce.  

Overall, Saltie Girl was a perfectly pleasant time with solid food, although not what I imagine the establishment originally set out to be.  That's fine.  Restaurants evolve and cater to their clientele's desires, as they should.  It was little raucous and overwhelming at times, but maybe that's me being old and curmudgeonly.  I just wish I'd been able to dine there in its pre-expansion prime.  I can't be sure, but believe it was a much different experience. 

Seaport seems to constantly
be in development mode

Next stop was Row 34 in Seaport.  The last two decades have seen this neighborhood completely revamped, primarily from the city's Big Dig and billions of dollars in local, state, and federal investment.  Abandoned warehouses and desolate parking lots are now 7-figure lofts and shimmering glass high rises.  It's nice, but almost too nice, like a movie set or something.  Character takes time.  And of course, with luxury development comes hip, new restaurants serving up locally sourced produce, spirits, and seafood.  Ironically, it's this very development that may officially kill the city of Boston's fishing industry by pricing out the commercial anglers at the waterfront pier, but that's another story.  Row 34 was opened in late 2013 through a partnership of James Beard nominated chef Jeremy Sewall and oyster-farmer now oyster-magnate Skip Bennett of Island Creek.  The restaurant's name even comes from an especially prized oyster growth row on Island Creek's farm in Duxbury Bay.  It's got an industrial chic, workingman's feel, but the menus and food are a bit more elevated than your average oyster bar.  

I was meeting an old friend here, so this was my only real chance to go full throttle on a menu of any of the establishments I'd be visiting.  And man, we went pedal to the metal:

Left Going Clockwise - Raw Bar, Raw Oysters,
Smoked & Cured Fish Board, Collar and Whole Fish

• Raw Oysters 
• Row 34, Duxbury, MA 
• Butter & Brine, Narragansett, RI  
• Farewell Bluff, Damariscotta, ME
• Smoked & Cured Board
• Salmon Gravlax
• Classic Smoked Salmon
• Bluefish Pâté
• Salmon Pâté
• Crispy Fried Island Creek Oysters
• Baked Oysters w/ Poblano Lime Butter
• Roasted Amberjack Collar w/ Pistachio Gremolata
• Grilled Whole Black Sea Bass w/ Corn & Shishito Chimichurri and Cilantro Crema

Their menus were admittedly just shy of Saltie Girl's size and breadth, but they were more focused, more reigned in.  Everything seemed legit and in line.  Mostly continental American with some pan-Latino influence.  They had a raw selection of ten oysters, focused on Cape Cod, with a few from Maine, Rhode Island, and Virginia.  Looking back, the oysters were by far the best shucked and presented of the day.  I expected nothing less from an establishment co-owned by an oyster farmer, after all.  All three we ordered were delectable, especially the Row 34s.  Duxbury Bay oysters always have a savory shellfish or lobster stock finish to them, and the Row 34s delivered this in spades.  I now understand the restaurant's choice in name.

Row 34 not under construction
Photo courtesy of Bentel & Bentel

The smoked & cured fish platter was solid, most notably the salmon "pâté."  It was basically a classic smoked whitefish dip, but hit all the right spots.  My buddy and I have a saying about house smoked fish:  "if it's on the menu, it gets ordered."  I was glad we stuck to the credo here.  The accoutrements with the board felt more like an after thought, but the important parts were on point.  And like smoked fish, if a fish collar is on the menu, it too "gets ordered."  The roasted collar was rich, juicy, and exploding with deep amberjack flavor.  It contrasted well with the sweet pistachios, tart lemon, and sharp garlic of the gremolata.  Just like a t-bone steak or bone-in chicken thighs, fish cooked on the bone always tastes better, whether whole, chops, or portions like the collar.  I really appreciated seeing the same fish throughout the menu being prepared in different parts and ways.  Halibut ceviche, halibut tacos, pan seared halibut cheeks, roasted halibut collars.  Right away, you know Row 34 is bringing in fresh whole fish, butchering, and utilizing every bit.  Economical, sustainable, and delicious all at the same time.  My only regret was not ordering one of the ceviches or crudos, as it seemed they put a lot of thought into those presentations.  Maybe next time when we return for the 20th year college reunion.  Thumbs up to Row 34, either way.  

The Union Oyster House
from Marshall Street

The third stop was an absolute must.  Perhaps not from a culinary perspective, but definitely a historic one.  I headed out of Seaport, across the Congress Street Bridge, and past the Boston Tea Party Museum.  I'm also a bit of an American Revolution nerd, so I would have loved to stop in.  Time was of the essence, though, and Union Oyster House was going to provide plenty of historic representation (with a modest taxation).  Founded in 1826 next to what is now Boston City Hall, Union Oyster House is the oldest continually-operating restaurant in America and a recognized National Landmark.  The building itself predates the restaurant by over a century, having previously been a dry goods and clothing store.  It housed a printing press for The Massachusetts Spy, a 1770s pro-American Revolution newspaper, and was briefly the residence of then-exiled Louis Phillipe, who later became King of France.  Since its inception as a restaurant, originally named Atwood & Bacon Oyster House, countless celebrities, politicians, and tycoons have dined at the establishment.  There's even a booth named after President John F. Kennedy, where he frequently enjoyed many a libation and oyster.

I didn't even catch which were "Rhode
Island" and which were "Connecticut"

I grabbed a seat at the original 1826 semi-circular oak oyster bar.  It's so old and weathered that there's a slight decline in the bar top, towards your lap.  One end of each platter actually needs to be propped on coasters when served.  Anachronistically charming as hell.  As for the menu, it had a bit of a "don't tread on me" attitude.  If it's working, why change it?  By no means was anything cutting edge, and even teetered on tourist-trappy.  Crab cakes, lobster rolls, crumbed Boston scrod, fried seafood and of course, chowder, which they've reportedly been serving since the 1840s.  But sometimes, the classics are classics for a reason, and I respect that.  Ye Olde Union Oyster House is, after all, a historic landmark, and the food reflects this.  

What I most enjoyed were the oyster listings - just "oysters - 1/2 dozen or dozen - market price."  I asked the shucker what oysters they had, and he responded "Good oysters.  One's from Rhode Island and the other's from Connecticut."  The simplicity was honestly kind of refreshing.  No "bottom cultivated, three years to harvest Royal Captain's Cups - bright brine with slight notes of brassica."  While I certainly value, even advocate for the high brow oyster sommelier presentation, there was something nice about "Rhode Island or Connecticut, what do you want?"  Both were well shucked and tasty, as was the chowder.  I went into Union Oyster House kind of knowing exactly what to expect.  Nothing mind blowing or showstopping in terms of cuisine.  What I did expect, and got, was a satisfying glimpse into colonial Boston with a heaping plate of history.  The oysters and "cuppa chowdah" on the side were great too.        

On to the final stop, but I first wanted to circle back to the aforementioned tinned seafood.  Quality tinned seafood is both literally and figuratively foreign to the US.  Starkist skipjack tuna or Bumble Bee pink salmon typically come to mind first when we hear "canned seafood," and they're most frequently reserved for budget conscious casseroles or sandwiches.  Don't get me wrong.  I've enjoyed a decent tuna salad sandwich here and there.  But most of these products fall closer to the cat food rather than caliber side of the culinary spectrum.  You'd be hard pressed to find Chicken-of-the-Sea celebrated at any established eatery.  Shit, our expectations for these products are so low that Subway fooled us for years by passing off even worse products as "canned tuna."  

However, across the pond, largely in Portugal and Spain, a variety of tinned seafoods or conservas have long been treasured as oceanic delicacies.  Most canned fish products in American markets are high volume, lower quality catches that are butchered, steamed, packed in water or vegetable oil, preserved and sold as economical staples.  Abroad, there's a bit more artistry to it.  Entire stores and restaurants are dedicated solely to curated tinned goods. Seafood preservation isn't just to sustain edibility, but a way to highlight or amplify desired characteristics.  Preservers employ nuanced techniques to elicit the best textures and flavors.  Pungent anchovies and sardines are cured, then seasoned and immersed in vinaigrettes.  Rare bivalves are mildly treated and packed at peak freshness to maintain their prized taste.  Tuna belly is charcoal grilled and preserved in rich, velvety oils.  It goes on, but to say the least, the Iberians and other Europeans take their tinned seafood much more seriously than we do/have.  A few vestiges of colonialism might have been nice to keep post-Revolution, in this instance at least.  Luckily, it's started to catch on in the States in the last few years.  And Boston, with its large Portuguese and Cape Verdean immigrant populations and influences, is a perfect starting point.      

haley.henry's front window

This is where haley.henry entered.  Well, after some wayward wandering around downtown first.  As they're centuries old, Boston's streets are not laid out in any discernible grid or pattern.  It's easy to get lost or turned around in what felt like a live action game of Chutes and Ladders.  After a few loops, I finally arrived at my destination.  Opened in 2016 by veteran sommelier Haley Fortier, haley.henry is an unassuming neighborhood wine bar in Downtown Crossing.  It's focused on natural wines, tinned fish, crudos, charcuterie, and hip hop.  Yes, hip hop.  The menu even whimsically pays tribute to hip hop favorites with à la carte categories like "bone thugs & charcuterie" or "biggie small plates."  As soon as I walked into an open kitchen behind a warm wooden bar and a congenial staff with Ghostface Killah playing in the background, I knew I'd made the right choice.   

View of the kitchen from
my seat at the bar

I was seated at the bar, right in front of the kitchen.  The bar is only nine seats and the kitchen is, at best, a compact 5 x 15 feet.  Talk about being packed in like sardines, am I right?!  Impressive they're able to execute quality from such a modest space.  I most admired their inventive use of the limited area and equipment; one of the cooks was reducing something in a sauce pan on the panini press.  Respect.  The menus were just as advertised on the front window.  An erudite listing of wines and beers, some salty and pickley starters, meat & cheese boards, crudos, and tinned fish.  As you can imagine, I was there for the latter.  And while I highly praise artisanally preserved seafood, I'm most definitely a novice to the wide array of choices.  The GM of the restaurant more than willingly spent several minutes chatting with me and detailing the selection.  

I landed on three tins - Icelandic cod liver in its own oil; Portuguese calamari tubes stuffed with tentacles and rice, preserved in a tomato ragout; and Portuguese steamed mussels in escabeche.  All were served with toasted bread, red onion, mixed herbs, lemon, and of course, Ruffles.  It takes balls to present a $22 tin of fish next to a bag of 50¢ potato chips and say "trust me, this is best."  But shit, they were right.  Each tin was great.  The mussels were full of that vinegary, smokey paprika, garlic forward flavor a classic escabeche delivers.  The calamari tubes were delightful, like tiny seafood seafood sausages in salty tomato sauce.  As for the cod liver, absolute next level.  I know cod liver oil has had some not so pleasant connotations in our culture.  I always picture poor little Johnny being force-fed a spoonful before he's allowed to watch Howdy Doody or go shoot marbles.  That stuff is fermented and choked down for health purposes, and I believe constitutes child abuse nowadays.  This tin of cod liver, however, was incredible.  It was mild yet luscious and spread on toast like warm butter.  The GM was dead on with "it's the foie gras of the sea."  With a touch of salt and a squeeze of lemon, I can't think of many better bites I had the entire weekend.  I even peer-pressured a couple dining next to me to try some.  They agreed.  I only wish I could have tried a few more tins from the menu, as the three recommendations I had were great.  Again, 20th year college reunion, here I come.     

Left to Right - Minnow Cod Liver in Oil, Da Morgada Stuffed Calamari in Ragout,
Da Morgada Mussels in Escabeche 

Whereas Saltie Girl's tinned fish list was over 100 items that I doubt more than a few staff members could knowledgeably speak to, haley.henry's was carefully and resolutely selected.  Anyone can order the gamut of Iberian canned goods from their regional wholesaler.  Boasting the widest selection of something is not always a good thing.  Believe me, I did it with oysters as a raw bar manager, and the quality and connection with the guests suffered.  haley.henry is hitting the tinned seafood experience right in the sweet spot.  It's not often I'm awestruck by what a restaurant is doing, but I can truly say I felt that here.  The food, music, ambiance, staff, and conversation were all some of the best I've had in years.  They succeed in humbly selling their experience with and passion for novel wines and cuisine.  They strike a delicate balance of fun and educational dining while eschewing even the slightest hint of arrogance or condescension.  As the owner put it, "we don't take ourselves too seriously."  It's hard to with menu categories like "Missy Shell-iot," sides of Ruffles potato chips, and even Weiner Wednesdays.  But I can assure you, haley.henry does in fact take their food and drink very seriously, and it shows in the best ways.

      

Although brief, my mini seafood tour was a blast.  I had some great food, learned some intriguing history, and chatted with some amazing and passionate people.  And while I still maintain reunions are not my thing, I am genuinely looking forward to the next one in Boston.  I've only touched the tip of the iceberg in what the city has to offer - just not quality baseball - #GoPhillies. 

Cheers,

The SF Oyster Nerd

Manhattan Clam Chowder

I grew up going to my Aunt Pauline's beach house in Wildwood Crest, New Jersey every summer as a kid in the early 90's, but hadn't been back in years.  I was lucky enough to fly back East for a similar summer trip to the Jersey Shore, recently.  South Jersey Shore, to be exact.  Water Ice, not Italian Ice.  Hoagies, not Subs.  Phillies, not Yankees.  And definitely no Snooki and no The Situation.  Despite the more-than-a-decade long hiatus, it felt as it always had.  A lot of my greatest memories came flooding back.  Sure, some things had changed.  It's not a Colonial Williamsburg-esque time warp type of place.  iPhone X's replaced Morotorla Razrs, Fireball shots instead of Cuervo, and Migos blaring at the bars instead of 50 Cent.  But the staples...aromas of salt water taffy mixed with low tide, trite Treasure Island themed mini golf courses, and mom'n'pop stores that seem to never quite be open, despite it being 1pm on a Tuesday...were all just the same.

That being said, of all the boogie-boarding and monopoly games to be had, there was one thing in particular I had my mind set on. My Aunt Pauline, the now 83 year old matriarch of the family, was spending the whole summer with her daughter and grandkids at the shore in Avalon.  The house we rented was only a few blocks away, so I knew this would be the perfect time to learn one of our most cherished family recipes, Manhattan Clam Chowder, from the original gangster herself.

Ok, but first, dare I ask, what is a chowder?  After all, there are hundreds of types of chowder.  New England, being the most famous, is clam and dairy based.  Then there's Manhattan, Rhode Island, Hatteras, Chesapeake, New Jersey, Minorcan, all of which are clam-centric, but vary in their base and viscosity.  Next you've got Bermuda Fish Chowder, Corn Chowder, Southern Illinois Beef Chowder, Potato Chowder, and these are just dishes that carry the name.  All very different.  Some firmly believe chowder has to be thick and milk based.  Are Lobster Bisque, She-Crab Soup, and even Broccoli Cheddar then chowders?  Others say potatoes, onions, and some form of pork are the minimal requirements.  What about countless vegetable soups that meet those criteria?  Are they too chowders?  Just have to be seafood focused? Then are Maryland Crab Soup, Cioppino, and Gumbo all not chowders?  What about non-domestic seafood soups that are often coconut milk based like Creole Caribbean Rondón, Guatemalan Tapado, and Thai Tom Yum Goong?  Are they technically chowders?  Does true chili have beans or not? Is a hot dog a sandwich?  Why do I need I.D., to get I.D.?  If I had I.D. I wouldn't need I.D.  Hope there are a few Common fans out there.  Anyway, get the point?

Manhattan Clam Chowder in a Sourdough Bread Bowl at Chowders on Pier 39 in San Francisco

Even the etymology of chowder is hotly contested.  A History of Chowder by Robert S. Cox and Jacob Walker details how we really don't know whether the name chowder came from an old Cornish word, jowter, for fish peddler, or chaudiere, an old Northern French word for cauldron or stew pot.  It seems agreed that North America's versions originated from 1600's French or British seafaring folk, probably fishermen.  They would alternatingly layer salt pork, hardtack, and whatever seafood or vegetables were available in a pot, cover with water and simmer for hours.  This appears to be the original chowder.  Preserved pork, biscuits for thickening, and whatever edible items were around, boiled. Other variations took hold as Portuguese, Italian, Irish, and other immigrants started adding their twists in the 1800's.  

However, all this still doesn't answer: what is a chowder?  After a lot reading and research, debate and discussion, I could only come to one conclusion: fuck if I know.  Seriously.  It's one of those culinary concepts that takes so many forms it's difficult to define.  Nor do I really want to.  Chowder is much more to people beyond just a bowl of soup.  Case in point, my inclusion of the tomato-based Manhattan Clam Chowder as an actual chowder will draw ire from many a New Englander and label me as a heretic.  Few things stir up such intense feelings as food.  It's fiercely defining for someone's culture, ideology, and overall identity.  Whether it's paying homage to your heritage with a traditional holiday meal or making a statement by boycotting or excluding certain foods from your table, what and how we eat is a major part of who we are.  So no, I definitely do not want to challenge what chowder is to anyone, but rather celebrate what it has come to be for me and my family.  

Family recipes mean a lot to me.  Some like old jewelry, others scrapbooks or photo albums.  I like family cookbooks. There is some indescribable feeling that overtakes me while flipping through my mom's old ones, all peppered with hand-written tweaks and twists.  A generation's worth of culinary how-to at your fingertips, all tried-and-tested, gained from the humble purpose of feeding people.  It's even better reading recipes from family members who've passed.  Just seeing their writing makes me feel closer to them, let alone making the dishes they spent years perfecting.  Biting into my Mom-Mom's banana chocolate cake instantly takes me back to my early birthdays, sitting on her lap, and blowing out the candles.

Top - My Aunt Pauline's Manhattan Clam Chowder Recipe
Bottom - My Grandma's Deviled Crabs Recipe

It also makes me want to thank the American education system for doing away with cursive in classrooms, cause for god's sake that shit is barely legible.  

I think family recipes are slowly disappearing, or at least our appreciation of them.  It could be that tv-streaming tablets are replacing connections to family dinners, or the emergence of meal prep and delivery services like Sun Basket and Hello Fresh.  Even worse, Caviar, Uber Eats, and Postmates.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not an anti-iPad luddite or don't enjoy the convenience of app-ordered Chinese food.  Trust me, I've had the demoralizing experience more than once of looking the DoorDash guy in the eye as he hands over McDonald's breakfast to my hungover ass.  People do seem to be more and more interested in their food, where it's from, how it's sourced, and so on, and I don't want to take that away from anyone or deny it.  But I don't hear much appreciation for the tupperware generation and the mayonnaise-based salads or cream of mushroom casseroles that helped get us here.

50 Count Topneck Chowder Clams

So, making Manhattan Clam Chowder with my Aunt was a true chance to experience the full joy and appreciation of family recipes.  Start to finish, it encompassed every detail I could have hoped.  Sitting there, prepping, tasting, listening to stories.  Flipping through my Aunt's old cookbooks and seeing all the tomato sauce or red wine stains, wondering how and when they got there.  Shucking clams and sauteeing onions, learning how my Aunt had to plead just to stand behind her mother, Big Aunt Pauline, and write down every detail of the chowdering process to memorialize the receipe. Getting educated on the right amount of bacon fat to keep in the pot while laughing about old family Scrabble battles. I heard how my then underage mom would drive carafes of Manhattan cocktails, at the behest of Big Aunt Pauline, to the local fishmonger in exchange for shucked clams.  And I now know my long passed grandfather's nickname for the chowder, "Callahann's Crowded Soup," as it has basically everything but the "kitchen sink" in it.  You can't get that from the Food Network or Blue Apron.

Manhattan Clam Chowder Prep

   It was just as good to share the end product of all our "hard work" at a nice, tv-free, family dinner.  Warm bites of briny and savory goodness eliciting everyone's nostalgic memories of past trips to the Jersey Shore. Most importantly, witnessing my nieces and nephew's first taste of Manhattan Clam Chowder.  I hope they too will appreciate and carry on our culinary traditions for generations to come.  For me, nothing evokes more emotion than food, my family's recipes, the stories behind them, and the chance to pass them along.  That, and of course fighting with my brother over who gets to eat the last helping.

Me and My Aunt Pauline with the
Manhattan Clam Chowder

Final version of the 
Manhattan Clam Chowder

Cheers,

The SF Oyster Nerd