Wednesday Lobster Roll Blogging

This one's not even mine, and it still makes me happy. That's how good a Pearl Oyster Bar lobster roll is. The lobster is fresh and never funky, and cooked to a tenderness than even the lobster must be happy about--I mean, we're all going to go someday, so might as well perish deliciously. Supposedly the "dressing" is mostly mayo, but if it is, there's just the right little amount with just the right other accents--a squinch of lemon, a passing of a shadow of a caper jar. There's nothing evincing the fancy or effort-full about this sandwich, which is why it's elegant as the slicked-back 'do of Fred Astaire. But in size it's much more Fred Flintstone than Astaire--you keep wanting more and then it's there, and it's hard to describe how pleasing that is. In LA you can have a very good, very dainty lobster roll at The Hungry Cat, but you might still be a hungry cat when you're done.

Of course for food to be perfectly pleasurable (dieters, why are you here, reading this, as if I could ever help you even if I wanted to), carbs must be involved. The roll itself is heavenly. Not brioche or anything tainted by snoot, but honest and buttery and tasty and toasted to tan, evenly, which is hard. And those fries. Thin crisp crunches that you feel you need to eat like you feel the need to hear the satisfying pops when you can't put down the bubble-pak.

You can wash this down with Anchor Liberty, on tap, which is still one of my favorite beers even in an age when I have been seduced by the wantonness of double IPAs and their irresistibly over-the-top hops. Indeed, the hop tang against the lush lobster makes for some fine mouth meld.

This meal is one of the greatest arguments I have ever tasted for living in New York.