The lobster roll (crustacean butteredphilius doughapithicus) — the pride of New England and beachfront shanties along the Eastern Seaboard, a dish of such simple genius it never fails to solicit a gasp no matter how many times you are served it — is not indigenous to the Midwest. Of course it isn’t. Understandably, it’s tangential to menus of even the region’s largest city, Chicago.
But being a native New Englander in search of a fix of late summer salty breeze and briny ocean, the other day I found myself panting at the doors of The Fish Guy on Elston Avenue, a quality purveyor with a reputation for knowing its way around shellfish.
I had been wondering for some time if a genuine lobster roll could be found around Chicago.
Scoff, but could modern conveniences such as airfreight and refrigeration and lobster tanks have quietly collaborated on a respectable Midwestern variation — or at least a tolerable facsimile, which has been out there all along, unheralded but worthy?
The time seemed right to find out: Lobster prices have been down (perilously so) throughout New England and particularly Maine, where lobster fishing, behind tourism, is one of the state’s most vital industries. And despite McDonald’s having introduced a questionable McLobster Sandwich years ago (in the Northeast), on a recent trip back home I noticed not only a lobster sandwich at Cosi (served between flatbread) but also a lobster sandwich at Quiznos (on a buttered sub) — neither of which, like the lobster sandwich being tested at Panera Bread locations in New England, is available in the Midwest.
What is available, at high-end restaurants, lunch spots and far-flung markets, I soon found, is an odd mix of the surprisingly reverential and outright clueless, alongside a bunch of Second City-esque insecurity issues. Which brings me back to The Fish Guy — specifically, owner Bill Dugan, who grew up outside Boston. He said lobster is not particularly cheaper for him, because of shipping costs and because he never buys his lobster meat frozen — as a number of local restaurants I checked out do.
Instead, he keeps live lobsters on hand, shipped to Chicago from a fisherman in Stonington, Maine. He goes to remarkable lengths to retain the lobster roll’s mystique, but frankly, it’s a bit much. The day I wandered in, I was told they need 24 hours’ notice to make a roll. But since they had just cleaned a lobster and meat was on hand, I was in luck. Twenty-four hours is nuts. Dugan explained, “The lobster roll is such a fancy purchase I want to make sure it’s done right.” Which means lobsters are boiled to order, then it takes an employee 45 minutes to break one down. Forty-five minutes is also nuts. So I watched them make a roll.
It was coated inside with clarified butter, then splayed and flattened beneath a cast-iron griddle on the stove behind the counter, which gave the yellow bun black slats of flaky char. As this was done, a second employee pulled hunks of lobster from a container and mixed it with a scoop of shrimp mousse.
You get two rolls here: One order is two rolls, the combined meat of a single two-pound crustacean. I ate standing at the cash register, hunched over, seconds after an employee layered the brioche with meat. It was quite creamy, deliciously rich because of the mousse, and topped with shredded celery, a whiff of ocean still detectable. The char added smoke, the bun was buttery. Check, check, check. But that lobster, briny fresh, struggled against the shrimp mousse.
It was puzzling — way too elaborate. Why go to such lengths for freshness, then hide it behind a lot of fuss? This turned out to be a common theme with Chicago lobster rolls. Oh, and the bill? $41. You do get two sandwiches. But you can’t order just one.
For the record, the proper way to make a lobster roll, as any New Englander will tell you, is with a split-top hot dog bun. Except, it should be an eggier bun, like a challah or brioche. Except when a decent Portuguese English muffin would work best of all. That said, a hamburger bun works even better. Except no one but a few weirdos in Maine do it that way. Also, the bread should be toasted on the outside, except when it should be toasted inside, except when toasting is a waste of time and, really, you need to griddle the bun so char marks appear. Inside. No, outside. Also, don’t forget to butter whatever side you do toast or griddle — no one will argue with that. But the meat should be cool, except when it should be warm — they like it warm in Connecticut. It should also be chunky, a mix of claw and tail, except tail chunks work best.
Got it?
Good, because all of that is completely stupid: To make a lobster roll, you need to mince the meat, except the real deal is a mountainous mix of chunks of fresh lobster mixed with a dab of mayonnaise and celery. Except that’s a mortal sin in swatches of New England where no mayo at all is the only way to do it. Except, any patriarchal New Englander will tell you, a true lobster roll needs only a sheen of mayo and drizzle of butter, to serve as a binder if nothing else. Except that’s wrong, because the finest binder in the world is a cardboard boat, which squeezes the sides of the bread and pushes the lobster meat upward. Except that’s dumb, because it’s disingenuous — the last thing a roll needs is the appearance of being generous.
My point being: Whenever a menu in Chicago promises a real New England lobster roll, believe it.
Why not? Nobody agrees on the lobster roll’s subtleties, but everyone insists they know what they are. For instance, the first time I accused my grandmother of hate crimes against shellfish was when she insisted her lobster roll needed knuckles of celery to vary the taste of the meat. She said it gave the roll a proper crunch; otherwise you’re eating a pile of lobster meat between bread. Exactly, I said. She shook her head.
We disagree.
But when I set out to explore Chicago’s lobster underground, that simple recipe became my baseline. I was open to surprise — so much so I considered any lobster served between bread. Also, meat: I was willing to eat previously cleaned or frozen meat, mainly because, if I didn’t, there would be no selection. Though Dugan said his lobster roll was expensive because the lobster is broken down that day and most other restaurants are using frozen meat, I found about half the restaurants I checked out broke down its lobsters the same day. Indeed, you’d have to look hard to find a clam shack in New England that will boil to order the lobster meat in its rolls — many break down the lobster that day and keep a supply of meat on hand. At Johnny Ad’s in Old Saybrook, Conn., co-owner Tenzin Lama, a Tibetan Buddhist, will not kill a lobster, due to religious restrictions, so an outside supplier does the dirty work.
What’s in Chicago?
More lobster rolls than you would think. We tried several; the chart that accompanies this story digs into the details. The best? Shaw’s Crab House, brave enough to keep it simple: a little mayo, a well-toasted roll, ta da. But my next favorite was eccentric, and not remotely authentic. This was the lobster po’ boy at Captain Porky’s, a soul-food-pork-shellfish roadside market in Zion, the kind of place with a purple jug of homemade wine on the counter. The meat had been frozen, the roll indistinguishable from a crab salad, but the flavor was bright with fresh tomatoes and creamy from a messy flood of mayo and vegetables. It was also a steal at $5.99.
“Really, this is just peasant food,” said owner Dino Kallianis, who grew up in Greece and opened Porky’s 26 years ago. “People want it to be fancy. But it’s not, and there’s nobility in that.”
Amen.
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cborrelli@tribune.com
The fishing expedition: Christopher Borrelli weighs in — claws up or down — on what he found in Chicago-area restaurants. Page 7
