Crawfish Boil
April 10, 2009
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The first time I went to a crawfish boil I ended up with a head full of shells. I' d really gotten going on the cathartic act of smashing, hammering and pulling the crawfish, king crabs and stone crab claws—and so had my neighbors. We were seated at a table of 20 or so, and each had a small plastic bib tied around his neck, an act performed by a slightly disgruntled, pre-pubescent busboy with a nascent mustache and sweaty fingers. But I won' t judge him: my palms were equally clammy, my nerves just as frazzled. I had never dined with a plastic bib, not even as a dibbling infant…nor had I ever been to a famed crawfish boil.
After we were properly dressed for the event, the waiter handed each diner a small wooden mallet. Then, he took our 
order. At first, I was aghast. Our host—an authority on mud bug boils—was well versed in the language of the Texas Crab shack. After ordering nearly 20 pounds of fare, he sat back and chucked a pint of beer.
About 10 minutes later, a procession of waiters approached our table, each one embracing a gargantuan tin mixing bowl, filled to the brim with boiled corn cobs, potatoes, sausage bits and crustaceans. There were no plates on the table. Nor were there forks, knives or spoons—though there were about a dozen metallic napkin dispensers. Our host, poised with mallet in hand, was the first to reach for the heap of food, as soon as it 
was poured from the bowls to the paper table covering. It was as though none of us had eaten in months: absolute barbarism ensued, as we dug into the boiled heap, attacking anything shelled with the butts of our wooden hammers.
Needless to say, the bib was essential. Though I woke up with something of a crawfish hangover, my sweater was not 
sullied. My lips were cracking and dried from the spices and my hair was a tangle of shell shards, but boy was I delighted. Never, ever have I experienced a meal so interactive.
‘Tis the season again, and I recently went to a wonderful boil in Austin, though the event was markedly more civilized—even if the fare was served in Styrofoam boxes. (My future cousins-in-law brought their little girl Audrey for her first-ever boil, although, lacking teeth, she was unable to participate.) This meal brought nothing but crawfish, obviating the need for wooden mallets. But, of course, there was plenty of corn on the cob, boiled potatoes and sausage to go along with the mud bugs, and the addition of carrots, broccoli and garlic cloves was most welcome. As were the very dignified, and cool oysters, which 
helped soothe the burning roof of my Cajun-spiced mouth.
As we were leaving, I overheard one guest commenting that he would have to stand upside down in a cold shower the next morning, the food was so spicy. Indeed, it was, though I am no acrobat. I am proud 
of my newfound digit dexterity, though: my fingers can twist, pull and separate a crawfish in no time flat, which is important, since the Boil is an every-man-for-himself kind of meal.
Wow, that sounds good! Although I have to confess I went to an old-fashioned Baltimore crab-smashing dinner about 15 years ago and it really felt like it was too much mess, not enough crabmeat for the effort.
Great blog entry Isabel! I’ve never been able to try crawfish, having lived mostly in northern places. I read Calvin Trillin’s Tummy Trilogy, and, in the first book, he writes about several crawfish experiences.
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