CHARLEY SOARES: Bait box chowder - scraping together a meal

“Save me all those broken clams, and if the tide gets low enough try that patch of mud beyond the big flat rock and see if there might be a quahog or two hiding in there. Billy is coming down with a big bag of bruised potatoes, and if Chic makes it to the auction on time, we might have a cod head and some cheeks if he runs into any of his old deckmates.”

The caretaker was putting together the makings of one of his famous mystery chowders and usually everyone who was lined up for a taste was expected to contribute to it. From the time I earned my inclusion into that select fraternity the ingredients were never the same but the taste of those potages was always lip-smacking good. Even during the dead cold of winter, he somehow managed to come up with enough ingredients to make his signature gumbos. Whenever there was one of his famous bouillabaisses brewing on the stove, invitations were few and excuses were unheard of.

The old man was one of the most prolific barterers of all times. He could trade a cracked egg for a side of beef and have the other dealer walk away thinking he got the better of the deal. The reason that particular day was so memorable was the way things fell into place. The heating system in the school had failed so the children were sent home and the nuns went back to the convent in the station wagon. I knew if I went home my mom would deny my request to go scratching for clams on such a cold January day so I walked down to the club and visited with the caretaker who was in the process of putting together his plan. “I know you didn’t skip school so why are you here dressed in your best clothes?” When I explained my situation, he smiled and said there was an old hooded sweatshirt, a clean pair of Wigwam socks along with a small pair of fireman’s boots in his locker and that I could use his gloves and clam fork if I was agreeable to scratching for a few clams.

“That patch of rocky bottom behind Clarkson’s boat house, just before you make the corner to Pete Pelletier’s place hasn’t been touched in months. Check out and dig in the place where the green weed covers the rocks and you might be able to put a quart together.”

“Don’t get changed in the locker room, bring those clothes in the kitchen where its warmer.”

The socks and boots were two sizes too big, but much better suited to the task than the Buster Brown cordovans from the shoe store where my dad worked. I set off with the old man’s clam rake and wire basket with a warning not to fall and crack my head on the rocks or he would have to ship my body out on the outgoing tide to wash his hands of any culpability in my demise.

Every rock and patch of gravel was covered in rim ice so I walked in the water where the cold had not yet turned the water to ice. The old timer, as usual, was right on as no one had turned over a rock or dug a hole in that area for months. Perhaps because they gravitated to the lowest section of beach and believed there wouldn’t be any clams up that high was of no consequence to me because on the very first piercing of the tines into that gravel bottom, a big clam rewarded me with a squirt indicating that I may have hit pay dirt. The clams were deep and their shells were as delicate as an eggs but using the scratcher and my hands I managed to scratch about a quart before my nose, fingers and toes went completely numb. Just then a loud whistle from the clubs kitchen window focused me on a hand waving me in. At least I would not be accused of quitting too soon.

When I reached the club there was an air of celebration. “Hey kid when was the last time you had someone run to the diner to get you a coffee?” before I could answer, never, the caretaker said I would take a hot chocolate, rather than a coffee as Chic took the stairs two at a time on his way up to the old Plymouth he parked at the head of the stairs. “We hit the jackpot kid. Get out of those cold duds and get over here and warm up close to the oven.” From what I could see on the counter, our friend Chic had made a score. There was this huge cod head, at least 12-to-14 pounds by the old timers estimation that Billie was scaling and removing the eyes and gills from.

He then extracted a large cheek from either side that was the size of a small fillet. He washed the head, wrapped it in a clean white cheese cloth bag and carefully placed it in the boiling water. The caretaker took a few pinches of salt and pepper and a spoonful of hot pepper sauce and stirred it in with the head. Billy was cutting away the bruised sections of the potatoes while the caretaker skinned the good parts and cut them into cubes. Two large onions, that brought tears to my eyes, were peeled and chopped to add to the broth. My clams were washed and the shells scrubbed clean before they were shucked and cut into smaller pieces. Unfortunately, there were no quahogs burrowed in the mud behind the big rock, at least none that I could find without going over the top of my boots.

From my perch on the linoleum counter near the stove I was privileged to observe the communal efforts of a group of friends, most of whom lived from hand to mouth, working together to concoct an inexpensive, yet delicious meal that would feed them and their friends. The caretaker took a swig of the bottle of home brew that was being passed around and when he saw me watching that process, he nodded his head. “Bad medicine kid, you don’t need it now and you won’t need this later. It’s a very bad habit.” Thoughtful advice, I heeded, from a man who acknowledged a weakness when it came to alcohol. After the prescribed time the head was removed and put on a sheet of wax paper where Billie separated huge chunks of meat from the cartilage then poured the liquid through a strainer and into a clean pot. Two men picked the cod meat, added it to the broth before the caretaker poured the potatoes, clams and a container of cream Chic brought from the grocery store. The aroma filled the room and wafted up the stairs where one, nearly crippled, old timer was taking a nap near the wood stove.

We could hear him painfully making his way down the stairs. When he stuck his head in the kitchen Chic told him he bet the crew that the aroma of the potage would wake him faster than a good shaking. It was almost time to eat, so Chick gave me a dollar and sent me to Alves Bakery for three Portuguese breads, which I believe were 13 cents each. That chowder fed eight men, with seconds if you could handle it and sauce pans to go like the big one, they filled for my mother.

Many years later, I was transported back to the days of those chowder fests by my friend Captain Nick Cicero of Point Pleasant NJ. Nick fished from Florida to Maine and they bought “net trash” with the discards box from the draggers to use as chum for the giant tuna they were fishing for. I never met a rich fisherman, that is the men who actually got callouses on their hands in the process and cutting corners and saving money was always a priority. Those trash boxes contained all sorts of sea food dragged up from the sea floor. Nick could and still can cook up some delicious chow. Using a few broken lobster and crab claws, a handful of cracked scallops and a bunch of sea clams along with a few hake, choggies and other trash fish he concocted a chowder that rivaled what was being sold in P-Towns best restaurants.

Little did the skippers and crew who walked by his boat and bragged after sipping a cup of his delicious potion realize that this brew was made from what they usually tossed back over the side. That was back in the day when we made do with that we had and seldom complained about what we couldn’t afford. I often wonder how many so-called fishermen would fare if they had to live hand to mouth and on survive on their wits as we did.