Around San Francisco
there is a group of friends who get together year by year, decade by decade, to
feast upon crabs.
As
time has gone by, faces have changed: some new ones have showed up, faces of
young and even very young, some others have gone missing; hair has been lost;
life partners have either changed features or name and age; somebody has
popped up with his own kids, maybe even with his kids’ kids, but the light
heartedness of the beginnings has never burnt off.
At
first, one, two three couples of bon vivant-to-be have discussed about
organizing an event in honor of the yummy crustacean, carefully learning
strategies, meticulously researching, willingly experimenting themselves.
As
a necessary step towards success, four of them have jumped on the best car
available at that time and rode to Baltimore, protean and evocative city,
natural destination for all the marine flora and fauna lovers. A fleeting
glance at the bay, the dramatic Chesapeake Bay, whose hidden treasures are
certainly more attractive than its, though fascinating, orography; a plunge
into the aquarium near the harbor, daydreaming to turn its very guests into
some delicious food; a prolonged and fastidious inquiry into the local cuisine,
mainly crab-based.
The
meat and the claws still in their mouth and in their heart, the delegated have
soon come back home, their mind full of proposals and awesomeness, their spirit
loaded with enthusiasm and warm feelings for the nice little animal.
On
the road they have long talked, spoken on and even fussed about the
organoleptic properties of the religiously enjoyed food, before reaching a
vague agreement.
They
have blamed each other for flattering crabs or for loathing them, in the latter
scenario helped by some world-famous literary characters slaughtering them;
they have offended each other and then made peace; sometimes, they even feared
and quivered for their own friendship that, nonetheless, has been stronger than
any ideological differences.
Back
with the two of them left home to compose some kind of future, hypothetical symposium,
they have discussed altogether, in a happy chaos of voices, and then pitched
the guide-lines of the first, thrilling banquet.
So
they have polished silverware, starched curtains, aired rooms and hallways
because of the Big Day, because of the important moment. They
have patiently waited for the right time to fish crabs in a sort of cloistered
fasting and in a colorful mess of recipes and recipe books from all over the
world, scattered amidst fine-linen, cotton or paper tablecloths and napkins
and country and blues LP’s accurately picked for the Coming of the Carapace and
his promises.
Once
celebrated, in the end, with bellies, eyes and noses full of flavors and
aromas, they sighed with relief and loosened up, made fun of the past
misunderstandings and, dearly hugging one another, whispered dreams and hopes
for the next gathering to come.
E.M., Santa Monica