Photograph by Kevin A. Roberts
As we noted in the review of Coastal Bistro & Bar in SLM’s February 2012 issue, lobster rolls are Serious Food.
There are other Serious Foods. File gumbo is serious. Pizza (though too many St. Louisans refuse to acknowledge it) is Serious Food. Sushi isn’t Serious Food; tempura, though, is. Chowder, particularly clam chowder, is Absolutely Serious. So it is with lobster rolls. Save your kicky, cutting-edge gastronomical hijinks for the non-serious stuff. For lobster rolls, make them right. Or leave them alone. Assuming you do want to make them, here’s what you need to know:
Best to begin with the lobster meat. We could explain that you really need a male, if they’re available; there isn’t any difference in taste, but males tend to have larger claws, and claw and knuckle meat are the essence of the lobster in a lobster roll. You might, however, think our demanding you need to sex a lobster is going a little overboard. So we’ll just say one thing: The lobster needs to be steamed, not boiled. Boiling lobster is preferred by a lot of restaurants and lobster shacks—even some places in New England that should know better. It’s quicker. It also causes the meat inside the shell to shrink a little, making it easier to pluck and pick out. Steaming, though, preserves the real flavor of the lobster. Also, if you’re doing this at home and you don’t have a lot of experience, it’s easier not to overcook a lobster when you steam it.
The steaming process is nothing special. Just add enough water to a stockpot, one big enough to hold the lobster, so it comes up a couple of inches from the bottom. If you’ve got a couple of gallons of North Atlantic seawater around the house, now’s the time to use it. If not, add a couple of tablespoons of salt for every quart of water. If you’ve got a steamer rack, put it in. If not, just plunk a coffee cup upside down in the pot and balance a dish on top of it to serve as a platform. For the lobster. Sort of like an Aztec sacrifice table.
Timing’s critical. A lobster, placed in the pot when it’s at full steam—the pot, not the lobster—needs about eight minutes for the first pound of its weight, and about three minutes for every pound past that. So a 1 ½-pound lobster, called a “chicken” lobster, needs about 10 minutes in the steam. The shell, when it’s done, is Anne Hathaway-lips red. The fragrance is like Memorial Day at any great beach, from Gloucester to Passamaquoddy Bay. Take him out—that bad boy’s done.
We’re not going to waste your time guiding you through all the details of cracking the shell and getting the meat out. Jeez, if you can’t figure that out, you shouldn’t be left alone to play with a hot stove. There are a few tricks, like using a rolling pin on the legs to squirt out the bits of meat inside. But even if you don’t get every last shred of lobstery goodness from the shell (which you should save to use in making a bisque), what you’re left with is about a pound, maybe a little more, of beautiful white-and-pink cooked lobster chunks, tail, claws, and knuckle meat.
We have been reviewing restaurants professionally for well over a quarter-century, so we can tell you with some authority: There is nothing on earth like lobster. The fragrance, the taste, the texture of lobster—it's hard to describe or do it justice (though we'll try). A steamed lobster’s meat has the aroma of a salty, earthy estuary at low tide. It’s the taste of the frigid, granite-tossed rocky Maine tides from places like Eggemoggin Reach and Quoddy Head and Chebeague Island. Lobster is the Sox on the TV, losing. It’s the broad, flat, fricated R’s, coming from people complaining about traffic on Highway 128; it’s stone walls that are two centuries old and slate gravestones another century older than that. In a way, in a big way, that’s what it’s all about. That’s why lobster rolls are Serious Food. That's why, in many ways, they define the taste of New England. But as with much else from there, understatement is a part of the landscape as well. That’s the beauty of a lobster roll, too. You don’t make a big deal out of this incredible meat. You turn it into something everyday, ordinary. Like a roll—which we’ll get to, in just a minute.
First, you’ve got to do something with that meat. Which is to say not very much at all. Some places, like the delightul Lobster Pound on Bearskin Neck in Rockport, Mass., don’t do anything at all to the meat. They just pile it on the roll. In this sense, though, the lobster for a lobster roll is what a tree is to a Japanese garden. In nature, without any trimming at all, the tree might be beautiful. No matter; in a Japanese garden, to meet the aesthetics of the art of gardening, a tree has to be pruned. There has to be some sign of man’s hand on it, however subtle. Same with the lobster for a roll. It doesn’t need much. It does, though, need a little touch.
The touch is mayo—and just a touch. Just enough to bind together the meat. The only other addition is some celery. Finely chopped. Oh, yeah, we’ll hear from all the “purists,” who disdain celery. And the mayo. They fancy themselves the Guardians of The Roll. They also don’t understand the roots of the lobster roll. Which is in the lobster salads eaten by delicate women of Maine at gracious luncheons back in the early 20th century. The celery, and the mayo, are both an historical nod to those salad origins. Also, it provides some contrast. The celery doesn’t compromise or disguise: it accents it. As does a dribble of lemon juice. That's it. Then leave it alone and turn your attention to the bun.
It would seem the hard part’s over, but it’s actually just beginning. Ever had a muffaleta that’s perfect in every way except for the bread? Or a Vietnamese banh mi where the loaf isn’t that crusty, airy, French bread? All of the ingredients might be there, but if the bread’s off—even just slightly—it doesn’t work. Same with a lobster roll.
For a lobster roll, you really need a top-split bun. It is one of the curious oddities of food distribution that some comestibles are perfectly common in one region, but still unavailable (easily at least) in other parts of the country. We can’t get Pilot crackers out here. That’s why clam chowder doesn’t taste exactly right (well, one reason). Why we can’t get top-split hot dog buns here mystifies. Every 7-11 and neighborhood market in New England has split hot-dog buns. You’ll think we’re kidding or being unreasonable—until you try them. Even with a hot dog. Side-split buns—think about it—have more bread on top than on the bottom. You don’t get a balanced bite. The other advantage of top-split buns is that they're easy to butter and toast, which is what you’ll need for your lobster roll. (Rumor has it that Trader Joe’s may carry top-split buns. If not, it’s worth getting online and searching for places that will ship them to you.)
Once you’ve got your bun business in order, you’re almost ready. Add some butter—be generous—and a couple of minutes with both sides of the buttered bun on a hot, flattop grill or a pan, and that’s it. They’ll be toasty and golden, with a brown crust. Take 'em off. Stuff 'em. As much of the lobster salad as you can fit in them. Then spoon on a little more. This is not the time to be parsimonious. If you can pick up the roll without some of the lobster salad falling back on to the plate, you haven’t gone far enough.
Lobster rolls are elementary, really. An indulgence of the simplicity. It’s meat and bread. Nothing complicated. Nothing better. And no better example, either, of the joys of Serious Food.
