Soft Shell Crabs -- Get Them While You Can!!

Lowery’s
528 N. Church Lane
Tappahanock, VA




I’m a marketer’s dream.

Tell me something is “scarce”, “in limited supply” or “available for a short time ONLY”, I’m a sucker every time.

That probably explains why I spend so much time in the “Seasonal Beer” aisle of my local Total Wine.

I’ve just got to stock up now for summer on that “limited edition” Harpoon Summer Ale. (Note to local beer distributor: you better replenish your supply, because I just cleaned you out.)

While brewers will always entice me with their seasonal offerings that go down perfectly with a hot backyard barbeque in summer or a cozy fire at Christmas, I’m a sucker for seasonal foods too.

That must explain my obsession with soft shell crabs.

Soft shells are fleeting creatures, available for only a few hours during a few months of the year.

Now that’s what I call limited edition!

Traditional holds that you can only get fresh soft shell crabs for a few weeks after the first full moon of May. That is certainly when they are most prevalent on the menu boards of Chesapeake Bay restaurants.

In reality, you can still get them throughout the summer. (Just don’t tell the soft shells’ V.P. of Marketing.)

All crabs go through a few moltings during their lifespan, where they plump up and slip out of their hard shell and immediately begin growing a new shell.

And that’s all a soft shell crab is -- just a regular ol’ blue crab found so prevalent in southern coastal waters -- going through change of life.

Waterman around the Chesapeake Bay quickly figured out that if you time it just right, before the new hard shell forms, you can fry up and eat a soft crab whole.

Whole?

Yep. Belly, back, legs and all. Just bite right into him.

That’s a hell of a lot less work than all that cracking, hammering, pounding, poking and picking required to extract the meat from a hard crab.

A soft shell crab sandwich is a lazy man’s crab feast.

Maybe that’s the real reason I love them so much.

Delicious, luscious fresh blue crab -- without all the work.

Passing through the small eastern Virginia town of Tappahanock in late May, I knew Lowery’s would be the perfect place to find soft shells.

Lowery’s has been serving up the bounty of the Virginia coast since 1938 just a stone’s throw from the mighty Rappahannock River which empties into the Chesapeake Bay 30 miles southeast of here.

Dark, cozy and old school with nautical knickknacks and paintings of watermen on the wall, the average age of the customer base rivals the age of the restaurant itself.

If you want hip and young, well, Lowery’s isn’t going to be your kind of place.

However, rumor has it that there is a tiki bar around back that can get somewhat lively (or as lively as anything gets in Tappahanock) during happy hour.

As usual, it was a work day for Suit757, so I’ll probably never know for sure.

I knew I came to the right place as soon as I walked through the front door when I read the hand written sheet of paper tacked up next to the hostess stand reading “fresh local soft shells available.”

Yes!!!

I was so excited.

Lowery’s version didn’t disappoint.

One of the largest soft shells I’ve ever seen, perfectly fried in a nice tasty batter, placed on a toasted bun with lettuce, tomato and a slather of tartar sauce.

Eating a soft shell crab sandwich is just fun -- like eating a big delicious bug.

Crispy fried legs dangling out of the bun on all sides, I felt a sense of jubilation just picking the crustacean up and holding the sucker in front my face.

Of course the best part of all is biting into that bad boy. No shells or bones to worry about -- just pure fresh crab meat.

Just before the still alive soft crab goes into the fryer, the cook slices off the crab’s face and scrapes out the lungs and hind quarters so you don’t have to worry about consuming anything you shouldn’t.

Just bite into it.

Which is exactly what I did.

The legs were crispy. The body soft and moist.

Of course there was that slight tug from the soft skin that serves as a molting crab’s only protection against the dangers of being a soft, delicious maritime creature alone in the wilds of the Chesapeake Bay.

It is that yin and yang of textures of a soft shell crab that can be somewhat off putting to land lubbers, Yankees, Obama voters and other such joy killers.

But I try not to hang out with people like that.

Lowery’s other food items were just as delicious, if not quite as seasonally exclusive.

The crab dip was almost pure crab meat, with the cheeses and seasonings serving strictly as background music.

The rolls were warm, fresh out of the oven.

Sweet candied yams and crunchy, creamy cole slaw rounded out a fantastic meal.

Lowery’s isn’t cheap.

The Soft shell sandwich was $12. The crab dip was $15. The crab cake sandwich was $14.

But all of it was good.

I don’t get as irritated by the big bill at the end when I enjoy a meal this much.

After all, dining at Lowery’s is once-n-a-lifetime opportunity available to an exclusive but discerning subset of diners who just happened to be passing by during the extremely limited soft shell crab season.

Yep. I fall for it every time.

And this time, I’m glad I did.

Rating: Seriously Thought about Buying Shirt.

The South Wins at the Southern Kitchen

Southern Kitchen
9576 S. Congress St.
New Market, VA





Southerners will still argue over The War Between the States.

Just a mile from the Southern Kitchen here in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, 247 young, green cadets from Virginia Military Institute drove the Yankee invaders out of the valley in the Battle of New Market 149 years ago.

The South may have ultimately lost The War of Northern Aggression, but even the most fervent Lincoln-worshiping, federal-government-loving A-Rod fan must concede the one battle (besides New Market) the South won hands down:

Good cooking!

And the victory that is good Southern cooking is celebrated every day here at the appropriately named Southern Kitchen.

Tourists and locals alike pile into this quaint small town café just off the tractor trailer-clogged I-81.

No meal at the Southern Kitchen is complete without starting off with that only-in-Virginia concoction known as peanut soup.

Granted, the beautiful Shenandoah Valley isn’t exactly known as a peanut growing region. But the family that has run the Southern Kitchen for generations somehow snagged a recipe from Virginia’s peanut-growing Southside many years ago -- and the good folks traveling I-81 have been grateful ever since.

I expected peanut soup to be thick and goopy -- like liquid peanut butter.

But instead, it is surprisingly thin and light with a delicious earthy nutty flavor counterbalanced by the sweet taste of onion. Small bits of peanut and onion provide just a touch of texture to the velvety soup.

The quintessential Southern dish is fried chicken. So there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity to sample some at the Southern Kitchen.

The thin but crispy crust locked in the juicy goodness of my moist tender dark meat. Not the greatest fried chicken I’ve ever had, but not bad.

Like most Southern sides, my candied yams and green beans were loaded with sugary sweetness.

Of course it would be an insult to the memory of Robert E. Lee to stop by a Southern restaurant in rural Virginia without sampling some good old Virginia country ham.

The Southern Kitchen’s version was topped with a ring of pineapple to cut the moderately salty cure in the ham.

All of the good Southern cooking I sampled was good, if not spectacular.

The spectacular part came when my waitress brought out the peanut butter/chocolate pie.

Oh. Yeah.

I devoured that piece like Grant took Richmond.

Two inches of sweet chocolate topped by three inches of fluffy meringue topped with a drizzle of chocolate syrup, this pie was the Scarlett O’Hara of roadside dinner pies.

Almost too beautiful to eat.

Almost.

After the first bite, it was clear this was no ordinary diner chocolate pie.

A barely visible thin layer of sweetened peanut butter between the crust and the chocolate produced an explosion of sweet peanutty flavor.

The chocolate and peanut butter went together like, well…

…chocolate and peanut butter.

Instant induction into the Suit757 Diner Pie Hall of Fame!

The Southern Kitchen and its blue ribbon pie made me proud to live in the South.

Sure. All those damn Yankees can gloat all they want about how they ground the heels of their boots into the throat of the South’s desire to determine its own destiny and live in freedom.

The states no longer have the right to self-determination.

The federal government won the right to dictate every detail of our lives from womb to tomb.

We are all Obamacare slaves to a growing federal leviathan.

But the Yankees can’t stomp out the Southern way of life -- or good Southern cooking.

They can’t make us cheer for A-Rod.

Or eat nothing but a steady diet of pot roast and boiled carrots.

There’s no doubt the South wins the war for good peanut soup, fried chicken and chocolate pie.

And thank God for that.

After all, as those teenagers from VMI understood a century and a half ago here in New Market, some things are worth fighting for.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Tiki Bar Damnation

Tim’s Rivershore
1510 Cherry Hill Rd.
Dumfries, VA





To paraphrase the great Hank Williams, Jr., “Send me to hell or Northern Virginia, it would be about the same to me.”

Hank was actually singing about New York City, but to me, this place is even worse.

As Suit757, I’ve literally been everywhere in this great country of ours, but the LAST PLACE I would choose to live is the vast suburban hell that lies just south of our nation’s capital.

Too many cars. Too many strip malls. Too many medians. Too many people.

And those people?

The most reprehensible of the human species -- bureaucrats.

Surrounding in you in your eight lane-wide traffic gridlock are all variety of bureaucrats -- the liberty robbers who run the TSA, EPA and IRS.

The people who get paid with my tax money to tell me how much toothpaste I can pack in my garment bag, what I am allowed to build on my own property and how much of my income I have to hand over to them to pay for all this raping of my freedom.

And don’t even get me going about all those self-important people who work for Congress crafting new laws to tell me how to live my life.

Or the millions of federal contractors feeding at the federal trough who self-righteously proclaim, “I don’t work for the government -- I’m a private contractor.”

Yeah, okay, Edward Snowden, same difference.

So where do uptight, self-important bureaucrats go to let off steam on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Northern Virginia?

Tim’s Rivershore on the Potomac River. That’s where.

So while visiting Suit757’s favorite posse of Northern Virginia bureaucrats, Hill staffers and federal contractors, we all decided to head down the winding, twisting roads that lead to the sandy shores of the Potomac just outside of Dumfries, Virginia.

The on-line reviews of Tim’s Rivershore really weren’t that great.

Most of the negative reviews clearly were written by prissy bureaucrats and cited the slow service, loud music, drunken crowds and slutty bikini-clad girls stumbling off the boats tied up to the dock.

Uh. Yeah.

I was thinking the same thing.

THIS PLACE SOUNDS FREAKING AWESOME!!

Tim’s didn’t disappoint.

This place is a pre-bureaucracy anomaly.

There is no way the bureaucrats at the Army Corp of Engineers would allow this place even to be built right on the sandy shores of the Potomac today.

And where are the bureaucrats to shut down the fun-loving sounds of people drinking, laughing and having a good time?

And isn’t there some sort of noise ordinance in Prince William County to prevent a live band from entertaining the crowds from a makeshift stage out on the dock?

And who is going to regulate the blood alcohol content all those drunken boaters stumbling up Tim’s dock to feast on crabs and pitchers of beer?

Worst of all, there’s GOT TO BE some sort of law to stop people from crossing the extremely active Amtrak and CSX railroad tracks that separate Tim’s from the dirt parking lot in the woods.

Someone could get hurt.

Or splattered, even.

That’s the irony of Tim’s.

It’s a Northern Virginia oasis of bureaucracy-free bliss patronized by nothing but fun-loving bureaucrats.

The reviews were spot on.

Tim’s is loud and crowded. And the service is slow as hell.

But that’s okay.

This isn’t the kind of place to come for a quick bite on the way to catch a flight.

You come here to drink beer in the sun, kick off your flop-flops, stick your toes in the rivershore sand and spend the afternoon hanging out with good friends.

Even if they are a bunch of damn bureaucrats.

The slow service can’t be blamed on our waitress. Amid the chaos, she was efficient, friendly and apologetic for the disorganization in the various kitchens, bars and steamers producing our beer and crab feast.

Appetizers came after entrées. Entrees came before side dishes. Pitchers of beer came sporadically when needed.

Our one crustacean-averse companion didn’t get her crab cakes until an hour after the rest of us had been devouring a mountain of steamed crab carcasses.

But somehow we all got what we wanted (eventually) and had a good time wiling away the afternoon as the sun set behind the railroad tracks.

The crabs were somewhat of a let-down.

Our waitress informed us that all Tim’s had left were “medium” crabs.

That’s not good.

Picking crabs is hard enough work as it is. You want some actual crab meat reward for all that effort.

I always order the Large or Jumbo, no matter the astronomical cost. (I’ve coughed up ten bucks per crab before, believe it or not.)

Crab picking is a once or twice a year occasion for Suit757. I’ll gladly splurge to ensure a high crab meat-to-effort exerted ratio.

Unfortunately, a few moments after placing our order, our waitress reappeared and apologetically informed us that the mediums were all gone too.

Now we were relegated to the small crabs.

They were like trying to extract meat from overgrown crawfish.

I think I burned more calories than I actually consumed.

But they seemed to be properly steamed and well-seasoned, although we did find a few duds with no meat at all.

To compensate for the missing crab meat, we ordered various trays of steamed clams, mussels and bacon-wrapped scallops, all of which were good -- but a poor substitute for a crab feast.

Thank goodness for the hush puppies, beer and nice waterfront views. Because my attempts to extract much sustenance from these puny critters was mostly futile.

The hush puppies were crispy and sweet -- just the way they should be. We ordered several baskets over the course of the evening.

Sometimes the hush puppies appeared out of the kitchen almost immediately. Other times it took half an hour -- which was a bit irritating because being hush puppyless is a serious problem.

You see, hush puppies play an important role in any crab feast -- running interference for all those pitchers of beer trying hard to enter my Suit757 bloodstream.

Sixteen dollar pitchers of Kona Big Wave Golden Ale were the popular choice among the lackluster selection of drafts.

Kona is the brewery that started on the Big Island in Hawaii, but has since been commandeered by Anheuser-Busch, which explains why bottles of Kona now state they are brewed in New Hampshire, of all places.

But hey, you have to work with what you’ve got.

Under a state of suspended disbelief, I could pretend I was drinking an exotic microbrew from a tropical South Seas island under the yellow and red plastic palm trees ringing Tim’s tiki bar.

This was actually my first chance to try Kona’s Big Wave.

A little fruitier and tarter than the more ubiquitous Kona Long Board Lager, this ale was a perfectly acceptable group compromise for a table of disparate beer drinkers.

That is until our one “Bud Light Only” dork (there’s always one in every crowd of bureaucrats) insisted on having his way.

At that point the law of diminishing returns had long since set in, so I didn’t even put up a fight.

Besides, who could argue in such a sudsy, blissful state of mind as the sky turned pink above the shimmering waters of the Potomac?

Tim’s Rivershore makes you forget all that…

…the sporadic service…

…the tiny crabs…

…the tyranny of the “Bud Light Only” guy…

…the Nanny State bureaucrats surrounding me.

As we stumbled back across the railroad tracks and snapped pictures of the dangerous Amtrak train roaring past, I thought Tim’s just might be that one long lost oasis in the hell that is Northern Virginia.

Well, if I am damned to eternity in Northern Virginia, at least you know where you can find me.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Anticipation on Tap at Dogfish Head

Dogfish Head Alehouse
6220 Leesburg Pike
Falls Church, VA




Look, nobody is more excited than me about the renaissance of good beer we’re all enjoying right now in America.

It seems like every city across “fly over” country, no matter how blue collar, unhip and unsophisticated, is bragging about at least one or two new start-up microbreweries. (I’m talking about you -- Cleveland, Norfolk, Jacksonville, Oklahoma City.)

Where once a trip to the corner bar meant a tedious exercise of listening to your waitress list off the mass produced yellow piss water most Americans are still addicted to, I can now almost always count on at least one or two decent local brewed craft beers. No matter what corner of America Southwest Airlines happened to drop me into.

And I’m happy about that. I’ll take a local clever-named “Fill-in-the-Blank” obligatory Brown Ale, Red Ale, IPA, Stout, etc., over a Bud Light every time.

But let’s face it, some of these brew masters could use a little more imagination.

They should take a trip out to the Delaware coast to pay a visit to The Dogfish Head Brewery which is constantly pushing the boundaries of the most adventuresome beer drinkers in America.

Those guys in Rehoboth Beach are nuts!

They brew beers with raisins, gesho root, cilantro, ginger, honey, blackberries, blueberries, kumquats, maple syrup, black tea, toasted amaranth and fungus-infected grapes.

You can get Dogfish beers aged in exotic Paraguayan Palo Santo wood. Or brewed from a recipe found on a 2,700 year old beer jug that was buried in King Midas’ tomb.

In other words, don’t bring your girlfriend who “only drinks Bud Light Lime” to this place.

She won’t be happy.

That might explain why Dogfish Head decided to open a small cluster of alehouses in the Washington DC metro area – almost 200 miles from their birthplace on the Delaware coast.

If you’ve ever been to Rehoboth Beach, you’ll know what I mean.

Dogfish beers are for manly men who can lift their beer glasses to their lips with sturdy wrists. Clearly, there aren’t enough of them around Rehoboth Beach.

These are high octane, high alcohol muscular beers that will put hair on your chest.

And I couldn’t be more excited to check the place out.

For Suit757, a journey to the Dogfish Head Alehouse in Falls Church is like Moses climbing to the summit of Mt. Sinai.

The anticipation was almost too much to bear.

What if they have the mythical 20% ABV 120 Minute IPA on draft? What if they serve all kinds of crazy beers I’ve never even heard of before?

Should I try something completely different? Or reacquaint myself with my rare favorites?

What if I drink so much high octane double digit alcohol beer that I don’t even know what I’m drinking?

My apprehension only increased as I made my way to the bar. The place was standing room only – on a Wednesday night!

Over the bar was a huge chalk board listing all the beers available that night.

I have to admit, it was a bit overwhelming.

It was like walking into a room full of your heroes, Ronald Reagan, Ron Paul, Robert E. Lee, John Wayne and Jesus.

What do I do now?

I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment. I didn’t want to screw it up.

Almost immediately, a female bartender asked me what I wanted.

Like Ralphie on Santa’s lap, my brain froze.

Eyes darting up and down the chalkboard, I was looking at the chalky words on the board – 60 Minute IPA, Indian Brown, Chicory Stout – but the information wasn’t registering with my brain.

So much great beer. I wanted to try them all.

But, no! I had to choose. But how?

Oh, the cruelty.

After some interminable number of seconds passed, the bartender decided she had better things to do in the jam-packed bar than watch my glazed over eyes and open mouth as I starred blankly at the chalk board above me.

She helpfully handed me a detailed beer menu and said, “I’ll check back with you in a minute.”

As I clutched the laminated document outlining in exquisite detail all the available beers, I felt myself calming down a bit.

Okay. I can do this.

I began to formulate a plan of action. I knew that I needed to go with the high alcohol beers early in the evening – while I could still appreciate them.

I definitely wanted to try some of the experimental crazy Dogfish beers I’ll never find at home.

But not right off the bat. Nope. Let’s start with something I know is good. And strong.

So, confidence restored, I strode to the edge of the bar and ordered a Burton Baton, a kick-ass 10% ABV hoppy dark beer. The hops are muted a bit by a sweet vanilla flavor acquired as the brew ages for a month in oak barrels.

I doubt you’ll find anything this good at your local microbrewery. Beer doesn’t get much better than Dogfish’s Burton Baton.

One of my dining companions is -- let’s just say -- a little less adventurous when it comes to beer drinking.

I noticed apprehension in his eyes too as he gazed at the black board.

But for completely different reasons.

He asked the bartender, “Do you have anything like a lager?”

Translation: “Which of these beers is closest to Bud Light?”

“Go with the Shelter Pale Ale,” she said.

The menu says it is their “most approachable beer.”

In other words, perfect for girlfriends and Rehoboth Beach bed and breakfast owners.

To be honest, the Shelter Pale Ale is a tasty brew. I would expect noting less from America’s greatest brewery. But at 5% ABV and no discernable hop bite, I wouldn’t even consider wasting one of my limited beer choices on it.

Instead, on my second round I opted for a My Antonia, an “imperial pilsner”.

An “imperial pilsner?” That’s like “jumbo shrimp”. Or “civil war.”

It’s an oxymoron in a glass.

The menu describes it, ironically enough, as “a lager for ale lovers”. In other words, my lager-loving buddy would probably hate it.

My Antonia is a light colored lager with lots of hops. Crisp, refreshing and delicious, I found My Antonia to pack even more of a hop wallop than the Burton Baton.

At this point I was ready to just go crazy.

Unfortunately, most of the off-beat experimental beers on the laminated menu were not available on draft, including the 120 Minute IPA, Immort Ale and World Wide Stout, which dashed my hopes of an over-the-top flight of four different mind-blowing beers.

Rather than go with a sampler of stuff I’ve tried before, I decided to get creative.

As a proud Suit of Irish descent, I’m normally morally opposed to contaminating a perfectly good Guinness with a repugnant British lager by ordering a “black and tan.”

But the Dogfish Head version of a “black and tan” intrigued me. I mean, when else will I be able to mix multiple Dogfish brews on tap?

My Dogfish black and tan was a sight to behold. A dark layer of Dogfish Chicory Stout layered over a base of 90 Minute IPA.

Now that’s a marriage I can drink to!

In all this excitement, I almost forgot to tell you about the food.

Yes, they do serve food at the Dogfish Head Alehouse. Good food too.

After all that high potency beer, I might not be the best one to judge, but I really liked my cup of crab soup.

Generous clumps of crab meat floated on a thick, hearty stew. It was a good taste of Delaware.

The calamari appetizer we all split was excellent also. Huge clumps of squid fried crisp were accompanied by spicy banana peppers, which added a nice kick.

Unfortunately, the standard issue cocktail sauce was not the right condiment. A nice aioli or remoulade would really elevate the dish.

For entrees, the menu listed a vast variety of options, from wood oven baked pizzas to ribs to sandwiches to pastas to burgers.

Perhaps because I was just exhausted from all the evening’s gut wrenching decision making, I opted for a ten dollar bratwurst -- the first thing I looked at.

The sausage was dense and flavorful and served in a sturdy pretzel roll, but the banana pepper sauerkraut overwhelmed the taste of the brat. I’m not really a big sauerkraut guy anyway, so I scrapped most of it off.

Like the calamari, the brat suffered under the wrong accompaniment. Grilled onions and peppers would be a better option.

Along side the two brats came a small dish of meaty chili and a whole pile of tortilla chips.

The tiny portion of chili was good enough to make me want to come back and order a whole bowl next time.

Ah, next time.

The Dogfish Head Alehouse is definitely a place you want to come back to. Again and again.

Next time I’ll try one of the pizzas. Or the firewood smoked ribs.

And can you imagine what kind of new crazy beer concoctions those boys in Delaware will come up with next?

My head’s already swimming with anticipation.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.