Red Sox Supper

When Cranky and I joined Jack and Pamela for lunch at the Old Port Lobster Shack, all the way down in Redwood City (a good drive), I knew exactly what I'd be ordering.
I mean, come on! It's the Lobster Shack, not the Clam Chowder Shack.
I asked for steamed lobster, and the instant I ordered it, Cranky capitulated on his cheap-out plan of a lobster roll. (I find the very idea of a cold, mayonnaise-dressed sandwich of lobster chunks in a hot dog bun disgusting, but I'm California born and raised.) He ordered a steamed lobster too.
What you should know is that we had smuggled a couple of plastic bags into the restaurant. We were going to bring the shells home!
As it turned out, the lobster tail portion I ate (really, really tasty... more tasty than distant memories of lobster, even in New England) was quite enough to fill me up, along with the half cob of corn, some particularly interesting cole slaw and a plate of housemade fries. So we had a couple of claws' worth of meat to smuggle home, too.
The lobster meat is still in the fridge (oh, there may have been a little left in those skinny, difficult legs you see in the pic).
But I'm so proud to show you what Cranky made this afternoon: lobster stock. He sort of availed himself of a French recipe, but we didn't really have all the ingredients. It was a Wing It. Hefty splashes of vermouth. Squirts of tomato paste. Beer. Water. Vegetables! Carrots and celery and shallots. Herbs! Local fennel pollen and backyard bay leaves.
We have just now strained off all the solids, and in a little while, we're going to chop up the meager lobster meat and stir it in with some cream.
Because I've been rather sad lately. And Cranky sneaked off and bought me some soup bowls a couple of days ago for a surprise present.
Tonight, lobster bisque.

Cool aside: Jack, not a food blogger himself, found out about the Lobster Shack from our very own Restaurant Whore!