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The Attack of the Killer Crustaceanby Danielle Birkin It all started with an aggressive lobster. Oh, sure, ask me why I don’t eat meat and I’ll initially cite all sorts of enlightened, ethical arguments—meat isn’t nutritionally essential, livestock fowl the ecosystem, it’s unspeakably cruel to butcher living creatures, and so on—but occasionally, under duress (or the influence of too much red wine), I’ll confess that a perilous childhood encounter with a bloodthirsty crustacean actually may have galvanized my meatless proclivities. Consider: It was June of 1977, and I was just 7 years old. My family was visiting Laguna Beach, Calif., and we dined one evening at the Boardwalk Restaurant near the Surf & Sand Hotel. Shortly after we ordered our meal, a cheerful waiter approached our booth with a basket of bread and began speaking in hushed tones with my father. I figured daddy was probably ordering more wine—as it turns out, his intentions were decidedly more fishy. I was perplexed when dad rose from the table and began to follow the waiter toward the innerbelly of the restaurant. I was further puzzled when he turned suddenly and said—in a calm, nonthreatening voice—“Danielle, come with us. I want to show you something.” I bounded out of the booth, wondering where daddy, the waiter and I were going together, but I wasn’t concerned. After all, I was with my daddy—what could go wrong? We were upon the tank before I even saw it. The sea monsters inside were enormous—even larger, it seemed, than my brother Chris’ brown Nerf football—but they seemed sluggish and lethargic, their grotesque bodies bobbing aimlessly about in the murky green water. One of the creatures, however, seemed perkier, more alert, than his companions. I watched with mute horror as my father casually pointed at the frisky monstrosity. “That one looks good,” dad said, whereupon the waiter thrust his bare hands into the tank and nonchalantly snatched the beast from its watery interment. My father nodded his breezy approval. I was frozen with fear. My alarm mounted when the creature unexpectedly sprang from the waiter’s grasp and floundered to the floor. There it staggered relentlessly forward, pincers raised in an obvious attack posture. It was coming straight for me, clearly ravenous for LITTLE GIRL. Certain daddy had conspired with restaurant management to sell me as chow for the sea creatures—in a fleeting moment I wondered why he hadn’t bartered my oldest brother, Barry, who was much larger and meatier than me—I screamed shrilly and fled the scene, barreling blindly back to our booth, where I dove under the table and clung sobbing desperately to my mother’s bare legs. Barry and Chris were giddy with laughter. Dad soon followed, chuckling—and probably embarrassed—to ensure my safety and assure me—much to my brothers’ dismay—that I wasn’t available for sale at any price. Then he did order more wine. Presently, our meal arrived, and I was aghast to discover the very beast which had so recently given me courageous chase—beautifully garnished, flanked becomingly with asparagus tips—in a lifeless lump on dad’s plate. My subsequent intake of seafood was thereupon limited to canned tuna fish for the next 10 years. In 1987, I stopped eating ocean creatures altogether. But I still dream about that brave little lobster. At 7 years old, I though he had spared my life—I later came to realize that I must spare his. |
