Lobster Bisque and the Angry Angry Sea

My friend Jim is visiting from Florida, and yesterday he asked me if I've ever written about him. Jim, this one's for you.

It was back in the bad old Brooklyn days that I got to know Jim and his wife Karen. They'd moved into the brownstone next door the same day we'd moved into ours. It was Jim who "invented" Block Island, taking full credit not just for turning us on to a beautiful vacation spot, but for the explosion of the island's popularity back in the 80's. Jim has invented a number of wonderful things, including our dogs. I'll save that tale for another day.

The only way to get to Block Island is by boat or by airplane. We used to drive up from New York to either New London, CT or Point Judith, RI to catch the ferry. Point Judith is a small seedy town that hasn't changed in the 20 years we've been sailing to Block Island. It's only a 30 minute drive from where we now live, so my husband and I have had a chance to go there numerous times to enjoy a bowl of chowda and pick up some fresh seafood. When Jim suggested we go out for lunch today, Point Judith was the obvious auld-lang-syne choice.

Not much is open in Point Judith in December. The fudge and taffy shacks are shuttered. The old-style motel is particularly forlorn. Fishing boats come and go, and a couple of wind-blown eateries churn out typical seaside fare.

We went to Champlin's, a two-story glorified clam shack. Jim chose the white clam chowder, and I had the lobster bisque. The chowder, which we learned was made with non-dairy creamer, was mediocre, but my bisque was nonpareil.

The sea put on a provocative floor show while we dined. The previous day's storm was just winding down, and the water in the channel and the sea beyond was as moody and restless as a teenaged boy. We watched the Block Island ferry navigate out to open waters, shoved and slapped by frosty waves. I've been on that boat in heavy seas and it's not for the queasy. Most passengers drape themselves over lower-deck benches, their groans echoed in the sturm and drang of the straining ship. It's an interminable hour of bilious bobbing, with Block Island hovering on the horizon, a destination at once longed for and loathed.

Later in the afternoon, my stomach churned like the waters off Point Judith. Jim, though he'd been disappointed with his bowl of soup, was fine. Maybe I should have played it safe and gone with the chowder, even if it was made with a scoop of scary chemicals.