Ishmael's Chowder

"I want to eat some clam chowder."

This statement came to me abruptly via a phone line connection to my uncle in Philadelphia. He was making his maiden voyage to coastal Maine from his land-locked city, he explained, and he had a short to-do list.

"I want some authentic, New England clam chowder," he demanded.

"Sure," I almost stammered. Granted, I had just moved to Maine (and you're not a true Mainer unless you were conceived, born, weaned, raised and educated within state confines), but this hardly seemed like a difficult request.

After all, chowder is an integral and inseperable aspect of local culture. For as long as there has been New England, fisherman have been throwing leftover seafood and vegetables into large stewing pots (called chaudiere in French, which thus became the name of the soup itself). To thicken and flavor these soups, readily available ingredients like salt pork and biscuits were added. Clams, being extremely plentiful, were a popular addition, and by the early nineteenth century clam chowder was a bona fide favorite.

Chowder in New England? It's like asking for Elvis trinkets in Memphis, traffic jams in Los Angeles or drizzly depression in Seattle. You don't find the chowder in New England; the chowder will find you.

With this in mind, I confidently whisked my uncle off after his arrival to dowtown Portland. Like a giant clam itself, the restaurant in mind sat lodged in the sandy harborfront and boasted a menu brimming with plenty of seafood. We eased into our seats and immediatly scanned the menu for our creamy goal.

After a few moments my uncle's eyes peered over his menu. An eyebrow lurched.

"No chowder?"

I couldn't believe it. He was right. There was no chowder. They had lobster, halibut, and Jonah crab. They had Cobb salad. They had burgers, ruebens and meatloaf, spani...spanikopita! And no chowder? I profusely apologized to my uncle and assured him that we would be slurping chowder by this time the next day.

What in the name of Harvard Yard was going on here? Chowder isn't just a New England delicacy; it's part of the local culture. Herman Melville's famous book Moby Dick is full of New England imagery and sees fit to devote a whole chapter to chowder. The characters Ismael and Queequeg, shortly before boarding the Pequod and taking on the whale, visit a Nantucket chowder house. One look at the sexy cauldren of chowder and they proceed to fall in love: "It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter and pletifully seasoned with pepper and salt ... being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition."

With history and literature on my side I led my uncle the following day to another Portland restaurant I was assured had chowder. We plopped into our chairs and asked our waitress for chowder. There was no need for menus.

"Oh it's sooo good here!" she bubbled. "Today's chowder is cod with ... "

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," I interrupted with a wave. "We want clam chowder."

The waitress rolled her eyes. "No, silly. Tuesday and Saturday is clam chowder. Today's Wednesday."

My uncle groaned. I slid down into my chair and buried my face into the menu. They had spanikopita.

Granted, there are other varieties of chowder. Manhatten chowder is a common variety that uses tomatos. There are some chowders that feature other seafood, such as cod or halibut. Rhode Island is known for a chowder with a clearer broth. (Rhode Islanders are known for their food quirks - milk shakes are 'cabinets', doughnuts are 'doughboys', and pancakes are 'Jonnycakes'). Conch chowder is popular in the Florida Keys and corn chowder is a well known and delicious soup in its own right. But setting anything other than clam chowder in front of a New Englander is like dropping tofu chili in front of a Texan.

If my final attempt - named Gilbert's Chowder House - did not have clam chowder, I was calling it quits and moving to California. Indeed they had it, and it arrived to our table steaming hot and packed full of clams and potato. For just a moment, Gilbert's melted away and I remembered Ishmael and Queequeg in that long-lost chowder house before us. Despite the Pequod and our fates moored out in the fog, all that mattered in world was the sauna of creamy chowder under our faces. Being surpassingly excellent, we dispatched it with great expedition.

Fortunately for my uncle, his trip turned out to be slightly less perilous then Ishamel's (though he did fly United). He returned to Philadelphia knowing that one bowl of chowder can reveal a slab of salty New England's past. It just takes a little searching.