It was late in the day on Wednesday, about 5:45, as I recall. My eyes were crossed from researching statistics and my ears were ringing from batting away rumors about Peter Jackson ("No, I'm sorry, I don't know what movie he's making next. Yes, he is much taller than a hobbit."). My reserves were low and that bottle of Orvieto Classico at home in the fridge was calling my name, as was the 90-lb. yellow lab who thinks he's a lap dog (hey, take it where you can get it).
And then the phone rang. It was my friend Shannon, who said six magic words: "We're going to the hungry cat."
She had barely gotten the word "cat" out of her mouth, when I said "I'm in," tossed the laptop in the sparkly first-dot-com-boom backpack, and headed out the back door.
My companions, Shannon and Johanna, met me at the house. Three moms, no kids, cocktails and chatter on our minds. (Johanna, the most stylish of the three, sported flowers in her hair.)
"There's a thing at the hungry cat tonight," said Shannon, "They said something about crabs. I'm not sure we should go."
The "thing about crabs" turned about to be a repeat performance of the hungry cat's annual, extremely-coveted Crabfest -- a celebration of those exalted creatures I grew up cracking: delicious, delightful blue crabs. Desperate not to miss a singular opportunity, I convinced the lovely Shannon and the stylish Johanna that we should go. The rest, as they say, is history.
First good sign: We were seated next to Jennifer Coolidge. Now I love me some Jennifer Coolidge. She's one of the finest comic actresses working today -- she even rocks the occasional Hilary Duff movie, and that's saying something.
Second good sign: Our waiter was a committed flirt, and he had a thing for Johanna, with her dual Austin and hair-flower accents. (This posse, BTW, was populated by Southern girls. Chicks who can't tell their apple fritters from their frakkin' Fendi's: not permitted.) A wink, a nod, a layer of newspaper coating the table, a quick cocktail order, and we were off to the, uh, races. The I-can't-wait-to-crack-me-some-crab races.
Market salad. Watermelon salad. Fresh shucked oysters. Ahi tuna. And the piece de resistance: six freshly-boiled, seasoning-coated, deliciously fragrant blue crabs. Although I hadn't cracked one in years, I was surprised how quickly the technique came back to me. In no time at all, I had my crabs picked clean, doing right by all my ancestors whose bones litter the shoreline of the mighty Chesapeake Bay (probably picked clean by crabs, BTW. It's a circle of life thing).
I don't know what it was that called to me: maybe it was the memory of the warm East Coast waters, helping my grandfather pull in the crab pots. Maybe it was thinking about sitting in my buddy Jen's garage, floor lined with newspaper, where the Old Bay crab boil and the Mickey's Big Mouths ran free. Maybe it was just the fact that it would be delicious to see all those so-called sophisticated Angeleno's trying to figure out how to pick apart a crab without splashing stinky sea-juice on their Prada's (not possible, BTW). Whatever it was, it turned out to be a blast.
Beverages? Well, we were seduced by the hungry cat's spectacular, inventive cocktails. My favorite, the Echo Park, was on hiatus (like all good Hollywood stars), so we ventured into something called "Sweet & Vicious" -- Luksusowa vodka, heirloom melon juice, roasted jalapeño and lime -- and a Maryland-themed classic called the "Pimlico" -- Early Times Whiskey, lime and orange juice, with fresh mint. Their deliciously potent hold was so strong that we each had more than one, foregoing the usual glass of wine (and reserving the right to call Giovanni the house boy to drive us home, if necessary). Never fear: I visited Simon, our local hot wine guy, to ask for wine reco a couple of days later. His pick: Mje're 2007 Alezio Rosato. It comes from a third-generation family-owned winery, the first winery in Italy to be devoted to the production of rosé wines. I doubt many people hailing from the Chesapeake could pronounce the names of its two grapes (Negroamaro and Malvasia Nera), but they sure would agree that it'd be damn tasty with a bucket full of freshly-steamed blue crabs and a garage floor packed with friends.
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