I Still Think Sadistic...

The waitress at Fox's Lobster House is either blissfully unaware of a life outside of romantically idyllic Maine (really, with the coastal views I'm enjoying from my dinner table, who could blame her), or wickedly sadistic. She places the steaming lobster in front of me, I tie the plastic bib tabs tight behind my neck, and realize.....I have no idea how to eat this thing. The closest I've had to a whole lobster was at Legal Seafood, and at least they had the courtesy to crack the carcass, remove the lobster meat, mix it with LDL-level enhancing scallops, crabmeat, and buttery goodness, and place it back in an easy-to-consume package on my dinner plate. Not a bad way to go. But this thing....I scan the other tables for potential clues of what to do next. Of course the table to my right ordered the bisque. Why didn't I think of that? The table to my left has three ladies from Utah, and I deduce they may be of little help. Sure enough, the waitress has to help one of them tie her bib on; at least this blond can handle a bib. Fortunately, my #1 Travel Buddy has done well to teach me the art of removing claw meat intact, and she would've been proud of the slab of meat I dunk in my butter cup. But the body...after several near reenactments of Pretty Woman's oyster-shucking scene and one contact swimming in lobster juice, I emerge victorious with a hunk of lobster goodness that I simply have to admire a moment before eating it. She has waited for that moment to approach my table, and ask, "Need any help here?" Is that sincere concern for my lobster-eating experience, or a mischievous glint in her eye? She's observant enough to have noticed the bib-challenged table, but waits until my last mouthful to belatedly point out the lobster-shucking instructions on my placemat, strategically hidden under extra napkins. I wonder. But by my final forkful of Maine-blueberry pie a-la-mode, I decide I really don't care.