Tremendous Lobster Roll

Lobster roll. LOBSTER ROLL. The greatest sandwich ever invented by human hands, and I am including the cheeseburger in that comparison, I am including the BLT, I am including all of them — this is the king of sandwiches, hands down, not even close. The lobster roll is what you eat when you have decided, as a person, that today you matter. Today is your day. Today you have lobster.

Now — there is a war happening in this country and nobody is covering it. The lobster roll war. Maine style versus Connecticut style. Cold mayo versus warm butter. Both sides have their points, both sides have very fine sandwich people, and I have eaten this in every coastal town from Kittery to Bar Harbor settling the question myself. Twice. Maybe three times. I lost count. Even New Jersey does this well — NOBODY talks about it. Maine wins. Cold lobster. A whisper of mayo. A little celery. A toasted split-top bun. That is the one. The Connecticut version is also magnificent and I will not hear a word against it — but if I have to pick, and I always have to pick, it's Maine. Period.

The secret is RESTRAINT. Cookbook authors will load this sandwich up with sixteen ingredients — lemon zest, tarragon, capers, pickled red onion, avocado, microgreens, a little drizzle of yuzu kosho — total disaster, total embarrassment, they ruined a perfect sandwich because they couldn't leave it alone. The lobster is the star. The mayo is the supporting actor. The bun is the stage. Light the lobster. Run the show. That's the whole job. Trust me.

That is the sandwich. That is the whole thing. You sit down with a Tremendous Lobster Roll, a cold drink, maybe a view of some water — doesn't have to be the ocean, a kiddie pool works, an aboveground pool works, a bucket would probably do it — and you have achieved a kind of peace most people never touch. Real peace. The kind that only comes from a buttered bun and a pile of perfect lobster. Eat slowly. This is not a sandwich you rush. Save me a piece.