On the waterfront

On the waterfront

August 23, 2001

It's The Pitts
By Lee Pitts

I must admit I’ve eaten seafood: Once, that I remember. A friend of mine who is always telling me that I eat too much beef invited me to Fisherman's Wharf.

My sea-faring friend told me to dress nautical so I wore my yellow rain slicker over my Levi's and my rubber hip boots usually reserved for cleaning out the barn. My friend was dressed in an admiral's coat and one of those funny-looking sailor hats. He looked more out of place than I did as we walked along the wharf watching the poor fishermen who couldn't afford to go out on a boat. They were forced to drown their worms from shore.

All along the waterfront it was one jerk waiting for another jerk.

One fellow was trying to catch a 10-pound fish with pounds of weight on the end of his line. I guess he was trying to knock the fish unconscious.

Sitting there on the dock of the bay, we watched with great anticipation as a fisherman frantically attempted to net his catch. The big catch turned out to be his own fishing pole, which he had dropped over the side of the pier.

The fishermen were using everything under the sun for bait but the fish still weren't biting. I bet if they had baited with beefsteak they would have caught Charlie The Tuna himself. As disgusting as it was, the bait looked better to eat than the few fish that were caught. They were the ugliest animals you ever saw. Talk about animal rights!

Fish were flopping around in ice chests crying out in pain as they slowly expired. But there were no protesters or pickets around objecting about the crates that the crabs were kept in. And I haven't read one article about bait's rights!

I never really knew why I didn't eat fish until I visited the fresh fish market at Fisherman's Wharf. The smelt wasn't the only thing that did. Overhead the sea buzzards circled and a pelican spit out a fish, throwing it back in. I figure if it wasn’t good enough for a pelican it’s not good enough for me. Lately, I’ve noticed some of these sea scavengers circling the ranch. I assume they are looking for some red meat.

We ate on a permanently beached boat and I sincerely hope it had been a better boat than it was a restaurant. My friend insisted that I order lobster. The steak on the menu was $16.50 but the lobster was $28.50 and I assumed incorrectly that he was going to buy. My friend was born with a silver spoon in his mouth but evidently no taste buds. The fish appetizers he ordered looked a lot like the bait previously mentioned.

Then it was time to select our dinner, who at that very moment was enjoying his last few minutes at the bottom of a glass aquarium. I picked out a lobster and named him Stanley and the next thing I knew they were dropping the live crustacean into a boiling pot of water. I swear I could hear Stanley scream. And I can't say as I blamed him.

Why is it that the tree huggers and vegetarians complain about the humane slaughter of meat animals but have thus far been quiet about the poor Stanleys of this world? (Just kidding. I hope I’m not giving anybody ideas here).

They brought the scalded Stanley to me on a plate with a tool box full of paraphernalia to extract the meat. But I was like a fish out of water. "What is this dark stuff here?" I asked my host as I amputated Stanley's outer casing. In so many words he explained that it was lobster manure. I nearly passed out and Stanley was red with embarrassment. Can you imagine serving a steer that had not been cleaned?

"You mean they don't clean these things first?" I asked in amazement

"Oh, shut up and pay the tab," my ex-friend said.

I couldn't eat Stanley for a number of reasons. Instead I went ice fishing for cherries in cocktail glasses all night.

I limited out, by the way.