Boston Globe

Clambake

- The Boston Globe

Thursday, June 19, 2003

Summer in New England sounds a Sirens call: its clambake season. Earth, fire and water transform a basic seafood dinner into an elemental ritual rich with history. Somehow, out of the blue, my husband is entranced by the romance of it all and decides that despite the fact that he doesnt eat clams, the time has come for us to have a clambake by the sea. It may be hard to believe, but though weve been living in Boston a combined total of 40 years, neither of us has ever been to one. Turns out none of my friends have, either: one pal was invited to a bake at the Kennedy compound once, but didnt go; another was going to have a clambake this past Mothers Day, but then, suspiciously, didnt. Is it all a big lie? Is the New England clambake merely a myth?

No, clambakes are definitely real, and they definitely feature local delicacies like lobster, clams and corn. But these days theyre mostly catered, and theyre not always held on, or even near, the beach. Steve Woodman, of Woodmans of Essex, says most of the 900 clambakes they cater each year are held in backyards or at companies. You can have clambakes at a rented Tuscan villa,  Georgian mansion, or at a faux French chateau. A clambake cooked on a gas grill in front of a fake chateau?  I dont think so. Our very first bake needs to be steamed in a sand pit by the ocean, replete with the sound of gulls and the smell of the sea.

Inspired, I start making calls to coastal cities throughout Massachusetts in search of locations. One site staff member says encouragingly, Oh, you want to cook food in the sand by the water?

Yeah, yeah, thats it exactly!

Not gonna happen, she says, dashing my hopes. Unless

Yes?!

you know someone wholl let you use their private beach.

Darn. Tourism officials from all over the state call me back advising me to call a caterer or find someone with a private beach; otherwise, they warn, my clambake is dead in the water (so to speak). The naysayers start to get to me.

Then along comes Harriette Siegel of the Marblehead Recreation Department to the rescue. She tells me I can have a clambake on Marbleheads Devereaux Beach. Captain Rick Bartlett of the Marblehead Fire Department writes out a cook fire permit while were on the phone; Just expect 18 firefighters to show up, he teases. Hallelujah and pass the corn. Now Im feeling cocky. This clambake thing, which was threatening to turn into a fiasco, is moving forward efficiently. OK, the locale is set. So how, exactly, does one have a clambake on the beach?

Roger Berkowitzs video,  A New England Clambake (WGBH, 1994), has the answers, and theyre not encouraging. Who knew that a clambake takes a whole day to cook, never mind the advance research and prep work? What is rockweed, anyway, and what if theres none on the beach? How long does it take to dig a four-by-four sand pit? And where will I find enough dry rocks to line the bottom? Then I remember that while Steve Woodman has been in the clambake business his whole life, hes never actually done an old-fashioned bake by the sea. Insomnia sets in.

One week before the big day we head out to Marblehead on a scouting mission. Thankfully, we find plenty of both rocks and rockweed on the beach. (Unlike seaweed, rockweed is lined with saline-filled sacs ready to burst in the heat of our bake, imbuing our food with all sorts of oceanic goodness.) Problem is, the rockweed has little flies buzzing all over it, and its strewn with unsavory bits of plastic and tin cans. The rocks are fine, but the city girl in me desperately wants to find sanitized rockweed for the big day. My husband says no.

Looking for some free advice, I call Rich Vellante, executive chef and vice president of food operations at Legal Sea Foods. He is extremely helpful, telling me to par-boil the potatoes beforehand and wet the ashes down well after the bake. Then he says ominously, [A clambake] is difficult, adding, You gotta really heat up those rocks, and, You gotta have enough rocks and, Those rocks have really gotta be hot. This conversation isnt that comforting. What if my rocks arent hot enough? Vellante just laughs, then says, Remember, people used to do this out of necessity.

Actually, according to Kathy Neustadt, author of Clambake: A History & Celebration of an American Tradition (University of Massachusetts Press, 1992), The origins of clambaking are lost in the misty realms of the prehistoric past. In other words, no one knows for certain when this intricate dining ritual was born, and whether it was just a convenient way to have a big feed for a lot of people or whether it meant something more. Still, most people believe indigenous Americans came up with the method as long as four thousand years ago. Neustadt writes that as she watched her very first bake, she felt the tears welling in her eyes. I, too, feel a bit teary as my first bake approaches, though not from reverence. Vellantes admonitions about hot rocks ring in my ears. Like it or not, though, the bake must go on.

The only possible impediment is the weather. Five days before C-day, the forecast calls for a cloudy day with a chance of showers. Three days to go and its morphed into chance of showers near 100%. And the day before, were looking at a soaking rain, heavy at times, with tidal flooding possible. I can take a hint. Fortunately, the pessimist in me had booked another date (which Marblehead Rec. usually wont do, but Harriette had taken pity on me). Its hard, but we have to go on with our pre-clambake lives for two more weeks.

Time creeps, but soon enough there are only a few more days to go and this time the forecast calls for a partly sunny day. Thatll do. Thats when the flurry of preparations begins in earnest. Twenty-four hours pre-bake finds us picking through corn and potatoes at Fresh Pond Bread & Circus, where Mike Irish of the Seafood Department advises us to pour a bottle of beer over the top of the pit before covering it. Sensing both my interest and my skepticism -- in a month of research I havent heard anything about beer -- he offers up his clambake cred: Hes from Maine. Good enough -- add a beer to the shopping list.

We load the car the night before; it looks and feels like were going away for a week. This time, though, unlike two weeks earlier, Im feeling loose. So, the rockweeds a little dirty. Maybe its clean dirt, like my father used to say. Seems that a little weather anxiety has done wonders for my attitude. For a couple of hours, anyway. Then mild nausea kicks back in. I forget -- how do you clean clams? My husband and I spend Saturday night, which happens to be our 11th anniversary, eating leftovers and watching Berkowitzs video one more time. Afterwards, I pull out the Joy of Cooking and look up clams.

Finally the big day arrives -- well, the second big day arrives, and at quarter to eight in the morning on Fathers Day we head out to pick up our seafood and drive up to Marblehead. My husband has come to think of himself as the bake master, despite the fact that this is an honorific earned only after years of apprenticeship and hes never even been to a fake clambake on a lawn. Hes saying things like, Ive got this in the bag. Its gonna go like clockwork. But if his self-deception means hes ready to dig in -- literally -- to the days work, Im all for it. You go, honey.

Nerves start running a little higher on the way to the beach; my husband, so cavalier merely an hour before, wonders aloud how long it takes to dig a three-foot deep pit in the sand when you dont have a crew of helpers and time-lapse photography on your side. But by 10 a.m., the fires going. Were right on schedule. And by 10:01, sand is falling in on the logs, threatening to put out the fire. Thats when my hubby says, This is the stressful part, huh? Welcome to my world, love.

Were back on track as the fire builds to a roar; unfortunately, its so cold out I need to huddle by it for warmth. Our friends arrive at 10:30, and by noon the bake master is scooping ashes into a bucket. By 12:08 the foods in the pit, and at 12:10 I wonder if its supposed to smell like that or not. At 12:15 my friend Robin comes downwind where Im sitting and agrees that it smells like melting plastic; at 12:16 my husband wonders what we should do. We decide to do nothing. The die has been cast. 12:23: shivering from cold when the rain starts.

Thankfully, by 12:35, the suns out again, and by a quarter to one my man has that verbal swagger back: Everythings going swimmingly, he says confidently. Foods cookin, suns shinin, life is good. One-thirty rolls around, and its time to eat! The guys peel back the tarp, my hubby grabs a corn, takes a big bite -- and throws it back down. Raw. Raw? They pull the tarp back over the food and its back to the waiting game. Starving, I grab a bagel from my friends cooler. Half an hour later we have the second unveiling. As Berkowitz suggests in his video, weve thrown an onion on top of the whole shebang. When the onions cooked, your clambake is done.

This onions hard as a rock, our friend Jeff reports. Well, thats a shame, because an hour from now, regardless of the state of the food, we have to be out of here -- another partys arriving. I hope for their sake its not a clambake. So Jeff and my husband pull the food out of the pit, plate it up, and dish it out. Jeff, looking at the clams, says, Why do these look so -- I dont think I can eat these.

I know what hes saying. The clams are mushy and falling apart. Ive never seen anything like it. Then theres the corn, which is still raw, despite having been steamed for two hours. The sausage is dry, and the potatoes taste like plastic. Jeff asks my hubby how the lobster is, and he answers, Cooked. And that about sums it up. It all tastes vaguely weird -- rubbery, smoky. Robin and I look at each other, and she asks, Is it supposed to taste like this? Note to Mike Irish from Bread & Circus: A beer wasnt enough. Any other tips?  

I think there was something wrong with the corn, my hubby says. Its not fun to watch a mans pride get wounded, especially in front of friends (and a photographer). I shake my head sadly. Its not the corn, my sweet. By the time weve packed the car, hes arrived at his final word on clambakes: Never again. Cooler closed.

Still hungry, I walk over to Flynnies by the Sea, the charming snack shack next to the parking lot, and order fried clams. Theyve run out.

updated 4 years ago