Lobstah

There's something about the word lobster that calls for a Boston accent. There are words like that, some phrases, that I just prefer in Bostonese - lobster, beer here - they just sound better in Boston. But this post is NOT another "I wish I still lived in Boston" rant. Oh no. This is a tribute to the drive. If I lived in Boston, I would not have a reason to be driving the Connecticut coastline. And if I did not have a seemingly endless stretch of Connecticut coastline in between the hell that is the Jersey turnpike, the crazy winding parkways of New York and the relief of reentry into Rhode Island toward points north, I would not know, that hidden in a teensy-tinesy town called Noank is the best Lobstah sandwich ever at a place called Abbott's.
Abbott's is for serious people. Getting there involves following a veritable scavenger hunt of signs, the word Abbott's plus an arrow written in on poles and the backs of stop signs. Each year they hold a contest to see who is the first to line up when they open for the season. This year the winning party arrived at 2am!! I arrived right at opening for the day, on a cloudy weekday, and was rewarded with no line between me and my lobster.When you only get to visit a restaurant once a year, there is no room for error or experimentation. You go directly to the best - the hot lobster roll, butter on the side. Do you think you could handle a close-up without trying to nibble your monitor?

Just a quarter pound of fresh lobster meat, no filler, no mayonnaise, no work, just all the lobstery goodness you could imagine in one package. And yes, I had one for lunch and ordered two to go so that Ryan and I could have them for dinner.