A few years ago, I took my family on a vacation to Hawaii – a place known for its warm tropical climate, trade winds and birth certificates.
Our family arrived at the Honolulu airport looking as white as whipped cream – primed and ready for the sunshine. After checking in to the Royal Melanoma Resort, we headed for the beach.
Within three minutes, I already had a sunburn that made my legs look like a rasher of fried bacon.
I went to our room, laid on the bed in agony – and waited for a priest to show up for the last rites. Instead, my wife ordered up a glass of vinegar from the hotel kitchen. She applied it directly to my legs, and within a few minutes I felt enormous relief. I also smelled like a tossed salad.
That night, amazingly restored, I announced that we were all going out to dinner. I’d spotted a seafood restaurant on our way in from the airport.
As soon as our waiter presented us with our menus, I saw what I wanted: Lobster Thermidor. I had never had it before, but I knew it was some fancy French dish made up of cooked lobster, egg yolks, brandy – and cheese. It sounded like just the artery-clogging repast a guy should have on a vacation.
And then, the Lobster Thermidor arrived.
I thought there must be some mistake. When I think of lobster, I picture those big, skinny-legged crustaceans with fantails and large pincers. But what arrived at our table were objects that looked about the size of grub worms. It was, I concluded, shrimp – not lobster.
I called our waiter back over. “Excuse me, my good man.” (I’d heard a guy use ‘good man’ in a movie one time to demonstrate his equanimity. ) “I believe I ordered Lobster Thermidor.”
The waiter blinked a couple of times and said, “That IS Lobster Thermidor, sir.”
“This may be Thermidor,” I insisted. “But this is not Lobster. Shrimp Thermidor is not what I ordered.”
The waiter stiffened. “It IS lobster. It’s called langostino – also known as squat lobster.”
I parried: “It is not.”
“It is,” he shot back.
This continued on for what seemed like the running time of Gone With the Wind – as I got louder and more insistent. I would have taken first prize in a sputtering contest. The waiter would have finished a close second.
By then, I had thoroughly embarrassed my wife, my kids and most of the other patrons of the restaurant. We were asked to leave. That is, I was asked to leave. My family could stay. I walked out and sat in our rental car until my family finished their meal.
Turns out, I discovered later, that I was not alone in my opinion – at least, technically. While langostinos can refer to the meat of the so-called squat lobster, it is neither a true lobster nor a prawn.
I no longer order lobster, prawns or shrimp at any restaurant, just to avoid controversy. However, my wife will occasionally allow me to order crab. She says, after all, “You are what you eat.”
Pat Cashman can be reached at pat@patcashman.com.
