An Irish Lobster – What Next?
Who would have thought when I set out on a car tour of Ireland, I would find myself having dinner in a small French bistro tucked away in a wind-swept Irish village by the sea?
When I first told this story, I was once asked if it was true or just some Irish blarney. I assure you that the story I am about to tell you is true, and it just happened to fall into my lap—like magic.
Ireland is a country of magic. When I first stepped foot outside the Dublin Airport, I felt the magic of the land envelop me. A cloak of ancient memories wrapped tightly around my soul. I felt like I had come home.
After arriving in Dublin, we allowed ourselves a few days of rest and a gentle sightseeing schedule. My friend and I took time to enjoy the sights of the ancient city and adjust to the time change. When we finally felt ready, we loaded ourselves into the small rental car and drove north into the countryside.
It took me a while to become accustomed to driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, but the Irish drivers in the small towns we drove through were incredibly courteous. They even forgave me with a wave and a smile when I would blithely make a right-hand turn into a lane of oncoming traffic.
Driving north along the coast, skirting Belfast, we found ourselves travelling through wonderful little towns with magical names like Carrickfergus, Drogheda, Ballycastle, and Limvadie. The hillsides on each side of the road appeared to be painted in a multitude of different shades of green. On clear days the clouds in the brilliant blue sky were like small puffs of floating cotton.
We stayed in wonderful Bed and Breakfast accommodations and ate our evening meals in local pubs. I soon became very fond of my nightly pint of Guinness.
We travelled narrow country roads lined with fuchsia hedges dripping with bright pink flowers. Every garden we passed was ablaze with colour. Palm trees graced the northwest coast near Glencoulombkille, indicating a very benevolent climate for the sturdy souls who lived in the isolated towns on the northwest coast. The heather bogs were in full bloom, blanketing the land like a violet mist, and sheep could be found lurking behind every rock.
Two and a half weeks later, we found ourselves in a small town called Ballyvaughan, situated on the southern side of Galway Bay. Once we had settled into our bed and breakfast, we ventured out to find a pub where we could eat dinner. We strolled along the main street, window shopping at the small Irish shops, when we came across a small French restaurant called Chez Louise.Certainly an incongruous name in the land of the leprechaun. It was snuggled in between two pubs. Brannigan’s on one side and McMonagle’s on the other. A sign in the window of Chez Louise stated that the dinner special that night was fresh lobster.
My friend stridently announced that this was where she wanted to have dinner, to which I replied, “Whatever for”? I was really looking forward to once again sipping another pint of Guinness and eating some hearty pub fare.
Her words tumbled out as she pointed out that they were serving fresh lobster tonight and she didn’t want to leave Ireland without at least sampling an authentic Irish lobster.
I thought to myself that I didn’t think there was a great deal of difference between a lobster caught in the North Atlantic on the Irish side and the North Atlantic on the North American side. My biology training once again overcame my thought processes.
It quickly became obvious, however, that nothing would deter her enthusiasm, so I grudgingly agreed to her wish. She had been a good sport so far in indulging me in what had become a serious Guinness addiction.
I insisted that I would order something other than lobster. I don’t particularly like lobster, Irish or otherwise, and I find the sight of people eating whole lobsters incredibly unsettling.
The interior of Chez Louise was delightful. It was decorated to appear as a solarium, with several small, burbling fountains and potted ferns strategically placed around the room. A Mozart concerto played softly in the background.
Once we were seated, our waitress came to our table. She was what one would describe as a perfect ‘Irish Colleen’. Lovely dark curls framed her dancing blue eyes, and the wonderful natural flush of pink on her cheeks accentuated her porcelain complexion.
My friend enthusiastically ordered her lobster, and I ordered the salmon, which was described as being served on a bed of mango and orange sauces. We also ordered a half-litre of their house white wine. I suggested we didn’t want to overindulge, as I was still hoping to finish off the evening with a pint of Guinness from one of the pubs situated on either side of the restaurant.
We settled in to enjoy our surroundings. Time passed with enjoyable conversation as we relived all the adventures we had encountered so far on our journey. We eventually noticed that a great deal of time had passed, and many of the other patrons in the restaurant had finished their meals. We were almost finished with our wine as well. I glibly suggested that perhaps they had found it necessary to go fishing to catch the salmon I had ordered.
At that moment our waitress reappeared at our table. She was holding another half litre of wine and was quite clearly agitated. The natural flush in her cheeks was a few degrees hotter.
She sincerely apologized for the delay and asked us to accept the wine on the house. Concerned I asked her what had happened. It was then that I noticed she was wearing a pair of rubber boots with little bits of seaweed clinging to the boot’s sides, and her slacks were quite wet and splattered with mud.
She then nervously began to explain. The restaurant keeps its lobsters in a cage anchored in the ocean. They had failed to bring in enough lobsters to meet the demand, so the chef asked me to go down to the seashore and get a few more. At that moment, the kitchen staff was too busy to take care of the problem.
She didn’t know if we had noticed, but there was a full moon that night. When she arrived at the shore, the low tide had gone out much further than usual. The dinghy she needed to use to reach the lobster cage was sitting high and dry on the seaweed-covered rocks.
Describing animatedly that she had to drag the dinghy over the slick rocks to the edge of the water and then rowed out to where the cage was anchored. The cage, unfortunately, was stuck on a rock ledge and so she had to maneuver the dinghy back and forth until the cage popped free.
The waitress’s voice increased in volume as she described hoisting the cage up into the dinghy, retrieving the required number of lobsters, and then heaving the trap back into the water. Rowing back to the shore, she then had to pull the dinghy back across the slippery rocks and tie it to a metal post so that it wouldn’t float away when the tide came back in.
Our waitress, smiling tremulously, then assured us that the lobster was now cooking in the pot and the salmon would be ready at the same time. We would not have to wait much longer.
True to her word, dinner arrived. Covered in her lobster bib, my friend started the ritual of tearing the lobster apart to get at the sweetmeats inside the shell. I settled in to eat my salmon, and it was exquisite. There was a period of silence while we, each in our own way, savoured our meal. I asked if she was enjoying her lobster and if it was worth the wait.
In answer to my question, she sat up straighter on her chair and haughtily decreed that Irish lobster were certainly better than any lobster she had ever had in her life. I didn’t want to argue the point but did take the opportunity to suggest that perhaps it had nothing to do with the lobster’s ethnic origins, rather, the taste was due to the fact that this particular lobster was probably the freshest lobster she had ever eaten in her life.
