On Thanksgiving my friends and family made our yearly pilgrimage to Clancy's Crab Broiler, that bastion of seafood goodness in the heart of downtown Glendale, California. Almost everybody in our party of seven ordered Clancy's world-famous Bucket o' Crab, which is exactly what it sounds like. (Okay, it's not actually world famous, but I'm working on single-handedly making it so.)
The lone holdout was my mother, who refused to buy into the whole ritual of eating crab legs. She kept yapping about how the buffet at the Bellagio in Las Vegas features crab legs whose shells have been pre-cracked so that she can easily shovel the meat into her with little effort.
"You're missing the whole point of coming to Clancy's!" I exclaimed. "First of all, the word 'crab' is in the name of the freaking restaurant. You have to get crab. Second of all, it's got to be the Bucket o' Crab because there's something special and charmingly primitive about working for your food the way you have to with crab legs. The cracking, the pounding, the digging for meat—it's all a part of a sacred process. And it really makes you thankful for each and every bite because you honestly have to work for it. Like in caveman times! This is not just a meal; this is embracing our collective history and honoring our ancestors!"
My mom got the Fisherman's Stew.