Good ole Yankee cooking. I say, yummm.
Durgin Park in Boston’s Faneuil Hall has a special place in my heart. Yes, I know it’s an egregious tourist trap, and the food isn’t nearly as good as it used to be (and, why is that? How much finesse does it take to steam a lobster, or deep fry haddock?) and the waitresses all date back to the golden Jeffersonian era — most of them remember back when the States were a mere thirteen colonies — but, I don’t care. I love it.
I was in high school the first time my dad brought me there — Boston was a hop, skip and a jump from Maine, where we lived years ago, and so he was proud to be bringing me back to his old stomping grounds. It was family-style dining, meaning we were seated with whomever else felt like going to Durgin Park that day, with those heavy cotton red-checked tablecloths covering the tables. I remember we sat next to two kindly elderly (well, they seemed elderly to me when I was 15 — they were probably in their forties) ladies who were visiting from the midwest.
I was entranced by the crochety New England vibe — plain, no-nonsense, straight-talking, unceremonious, not to a fault, but to a virtue — and the mountainous portions of steamers, lobsters, cornbread, chowdah and Indian pudding (cornmeal pudding flavored with molasses — yes, not for everyone, but I love it). There’s something so unabashedly Yankee about the whole experience — I found it WONDERFUL.
When my dad came to visit me in college, he would always suggest that we drive up to Boston from Providence to Durgin Park for lobster. He always recalled with a certain amount of satisfied glee that when my roommate Dianne came with us, she ordered not one, but TWO one-and-a-half pound lobsters for dinner. “That girl could eat!”, he’d say, fondly.
So, it was with a certain amount of nostalgia that I brought my own children to Durgin Park three years ago — and, while the bowl of steamers that came as my appetizer were not nearly as generous as I remembered, boy, did they love it.
As steamers are not very appetizing looking (they look like slimy, invertebrate sea creatures with squidgy boy-part-like appendages — which is exactly what they are), I didn’t count on having to share them. I only offered them to be polite. Much to my chagrin, my gastronomically adventurous children quickly got the hang of peeling off the tough condom-like membrane off their breathing tubes, swishing them in the broth to wash off the sand, dunking them in the melted butter and popping the delicious morsels in their mouths.
We had to order more.
This is a steamer. Proof that butter can make anything appetizing.
In fact, the kids enjoyed Durgin Park so much, that we went back the next day.
And so, you can imagine their excitement when I told them that their grandmother wanted to take them to Durgin Park for dinner while we were in Boston.
check out the size of the cuts of meat next to Joey -- they make him look petite!
just a little bit crotchety
damn straight
family photo
Joey -- prepped for the Clam Bake -- lobsters, steamers, corn on the cob, boiled potatoes -- but no one eats the potatoes. Check out the bratty baby sister.
Andrew -- posing with a steamer. (I'm referring to the one in his hand, not the invertebrate standing next to him.)
After gorging ourselves on lobsters, steamers, clam chowder, fried clams, corn bread, prime rib, strawberry shortcake and Indian pudding, we had to walk around in order to feel human again, and not like stuffed scrod.
Joey, walking with Popo and toting our leftovers
Somehow, eating New England cuisine makes hip hop gangstas of our offspring
No idea what Nick Nack is doing, but it looks funny.
We also came across the Holocaust Memorial on the Freedom Trail. If you’re ever in Boston, please do go. My kids walked through it, read all the inscriptions and came away very moved.
To quote from the website which describes it much better than I ever could (http://www.nehm.org/intro.html):
The design utilizes uniquely powerful symbols of the Holocaust. The Memorial features six luminous glass towers, each 54 feet high. The towers are lit internally to gleam at night. They are set on a black granite path, each one over a dark chamber which carries the name of one of the principal Nazi death camps. Smoke rises from charred embers at the bottom of these chambers. Six million numbers are etched in glass in an orderly pattern, suggesting the infamous tattooed numbers and ghostly ledgers of the Nazi bureaucracy. Evocative and rich in metaphor, the six towers recall the six main death camps, the six million Jews who died, or a menorah of memorial candles.
The six towers of the Holocaust Memorial at twilight
One of the inscribed quotations by Martin Neimoeller
There was also a free outdoor concert going on across the street at City Hall. We got to enjoy a bit of it.
Samantha, taking advantage of Joey's shoulders and willingness to be sat upon.
That’s it for Boston. Maine, still to come…
Zoo Koo 