Crazy Crab

A few nights ago, Mr. Park and I decided to don our finery and head out to a newish Thai restaurant not far from our abode called The Grand PuBah. It's kind of chi-chi and has an extensive menu of delicious-sounding dishes, from the fancy, categorized as "land" and "sea," to the more humble, under the heading, "Thai street food."

When we arrived, the place was bustling with energy, and we settled into a nice two-top at the window where we could see the entire dining room--and vice versa. We ordered some wine, which arrived in short order, and we gulped it down, delighting that we were able to put ends to our respectively dull and frenetic work days.

By the time our server came by for our food order, the wine had taken effect and we were feeling pretty adventurous. We decided boldly to go forth and order an appetizer, curry and brown rice, and something on the menu called "Crazy Crab," with no price listed, just one of those scary "AQ" designations.

A few moments passed and our appetizer arrived. It was delicious. We ordered more wine. We joked about the crab. How crazy could it really be?

And then, about twenty minutes and two glasses of wine later, Mr. Park and I were jolted into semi-sobriety, realizing that the two servers gliding out of the kitchen and balancing what seemed like eight trays, were coming our way.

Mr. Park's face looked on in horror as one of the servers set in front of us a long, narrow plate and systematically lined it with mechanical instruments--tongs, small picks, and forks with scoops on the ends. And then, the server cleared as much room on the table as possible and placed an enormous platter in front of us, filled with absolutely the biggest crab we both had seen cooked and served in a restaurant. The crab was covered in a batter of beer, lime and garlic, and its legs literally hung over the sides of the plate and threatened to knock over all of the accumulated glassware on the table--and to poke out our eyes if we were not careful.

Mr. Park and I have eaten crab before, but not like this one. This was a behemoth, a prehistoric crab of epic proportions. Fueled by the booze and a can-do attitude, we rolled up our sleeves and started cracking and chipping, cracking and pulling, hammering and pulling, cracking and hammering. Legs were flying. Crab meat was flying. Beer batter was flying. [Oh, but it was GOOD.] People eyed us with suspicion. People eyed us with disgust.

Crab, crab everywhere.

After about a half-hour of head-down crab mayhem, we decided to call it quits. We sat back in our chairs, stunned, and surveyed the situation... em, the mess. There was a spray of crab meat across my wine glass and even across the window next to the table where we sat. Crab on my jacket, which I had laid next to me in the booth. Crab on Mr. Park's shirt. Crab on our pants. Crab in the front pocket of my purse.

We were embarrassed. We were so busy with the crab that we forgot about the curry.

The servers, sweet and gracious, and probably wishing that we'd never come in, came by and removed the carcass. They attempted to wipe the table down (it was likely a job best done after we had gone) and took our leftovers back to the kitchen for wrapping into to-go boxes.

We were full and marveled at what we had just accomplished. We subdued the Crazy Crab.

And when the bill came, we were pleasantly surprised that the A.Q. topped out at $38. Much better than the $100 we feared. We decided that it was worth every penny--and that next time, we'll bring bibs and plastic pants, so that we can be hosed down afterward.

Oh, we still have two legs left in the fridge, if anyone wants to come over and have a "crack" at them. [Groan.]