A Quintessential Comfort Food Joint

by Hamanullas Galpsi

As I approach, the white noise of the crowd at Maglor's Crab Shack emerges form the sussurus of the waves.  The restaurant is indeed a shack, wooden and palm-roofed, sat next to a palm-roofed pavilion filled with locals.  There they sit at picnic tables, on beach chairs, benches, and even one bar stool.

I join the line to order at the counter service.  At the counter, orders are rapidly taken down in shorthand and shouted to the cook in the back.  Periodically, this rhythm is interspersed with a shout for whoever's order is up, or the clack of a tray into the dish return bin.  Signs with cute, quirky names for different dishes are nailed to the shack's counter and structural posts, with no further description of their contents.  The restaurant was apparently started by a world-traveling elf, who named the menu items for the places and people he'd visited.  I recognize some of the locations written on the signs-- Gondor, Bree-- but other names are totally unrecognizable.  My friend tells me that some of them are Elvish, or don't exist anymore, and that a bunch of the names are just jokes anyway.

Soon, it's my turn to order, and I ask the serving girl what she recommends.  She tells me that I really can't go wrong with the Laketown Fry for comfort food, but that the Tuna a la Tirion is an "absolute flavor bomb" inspired by a spice mix from the owner's childhood.  So of course I have to try the tuna.  Fifteen minutes later-- not amazing, but not bad considering the volume of customers-- my name has been called and I've grabbed my tray and utensils and headed to the pavilion, where I find an open spot at a picnic table.  I can't help but notice a plaque on the tabletop identifying it as belonging to the county park system.  Nobody seems to care, and I suppose it adds to the sense of local belonging and eclectic charm.

My tuna, sitting in its foil basket, doesn't have anything special in its visual presentation: chunks of fish, vegetable, and tuber swimming in a colorful sauce.  But a wash of sweet- and sour- and citrus-scented steam tickles my nose as I lean over the platter.  And when I take a bite, I know that the serving girl steered me right.  The Tuna a la Tirion is a flavor bomb, exploding citrus-bright over my tastebuds, first sweet and sour and then with an aftertaste of umami richness.  The dish is not the most refined.  The fish and veg serve as vehicles for the sauce rather than complements to it, and I'm not sure why the chef chose tuna instead of a flaky white fish for this stew.  But it's yummy and comforting, warming me from the inside out with the flavors of a home far from here, transplanted and taking root in the village's salty soil.  In fact, the imperfections and lack of polish add to the homey air of this seafood joint.  Maglor's Crab Shack is a comfort food restaurant in a rural fishing community, not a palace chef's banquet, and it's a fine example of one.

At this point, there's something I'm still unsure about.  I decide to ask the diner across from me: What's with the live music?  They nod to a padded chair sitting empty at one end of the pavilion.  

"That's Maglor's seat," they tell me.  "He plays there most evenings, and certain days of the month there's an open jam.  You'll want to come back sometime to hear him."  I think I will.  I've still got to try the Laketown Fry, after all, and I'm rather disappointed that I missed the live music this time.