Don't call me "amigo," buddy

Oh, my friend, you have obviously never tripped through Little Italy.

 

Now that's a great place. Just a few blocks past the Harbor, and you've got a slice of Italia.

 

A few months ago, I sat at someone's house and ate blue crabs with old bay sauce for about eight consecutive hours. I'd do it again any day of the week.

 

If I could install an IV of Old Bay to my arm, I would. Without hesitation.

 

I hadn't had it until that day. My ex-girlfriend spent three years talking the stuff up, but never really told me what it was. "It tastes amazing," she said. "You'll want to put it on everything." But she didn't tell me about its texture. When they opened the big box of blue crabs, I asked, "Do we have to wash the dirt off these suckers?" They all laughed at me. "That's old bay," her friend said. "I'd eat it out of a bowl if we weren't using it for the crabs."

 

Rock shrimp. With Old Bay (but not TOO much). Unlimited.

That was my first meal in Sanibel, Fla., two weeks ago. I could have cried with appreciation.