Try as it did, a late-May Nor-Easter couldn’t deter the inaugural Bite Club season finale. A determined father-son duo navigate the wind and rain and sleet and hail to find themselves in a practically empty Moby Dick’s, Wellfleet’s famed, northern-most eatery.
HyperLocal Cape Cod’s Bite Club season stretches from Halloween to Memorial Day. A collection of genuine food enthusiasts assemble weekly to patronize restaurants with the spine to run a year round establishment. Food enthusiasts is a flexible descriptor: we don’t need up tight sommelier-styled flowery talk … but we’re not against them either. That said, Anthony Bourdain is one of our lighthouses as well, and it’s a tall order to find a more enthusiastic, better experienced, fine palate’d, and irreverent voice in the food world. We believe there’s a seat at every one of our tables for the pretentious and the ones who holds their chicken down with their thumb to pull it apart.
Blow the Horn and Tap the Tambourine
Having secured a bottle of dry white on the ride, the two soaked and starved Speedway 6 sailors sauntered in, denim legs damp from ankle to thigh. The short but dry walk protected by the overhang running along the front of Moby Dick’s was solace enough to cleanse the bitterness from their dispositions. This exact dinner had been on their minds throughout the weeks of warm weather leading up to this aberration of an afternoon - was Moby’s even going to be open? Would they flood out? Could the Pequod hold up?
It could and it did. It wasn’t until the two took that walk along the front of the restaurant that they finally let go of the shared annoyance — elevated to outright misery by the weather’s cruel attempt to rob them of the feast they’d been waiting for. That 50 step trip allowed them to enjoy the fury and the power of the storm without having to withstand its punch; the immediate memory of piss poor drivers ahead of them on Suicide Alley — slow and overly-cautious to the point of being a hazard — simply fell away and they were inside, facing up the wonderful chalkboard menu.
There being no line in front or behind fitted them with an unheard of amount of time to decide on exactly the right thing to order. Suddenly there were no other conditions that would have been suitable for this port call. Has anyone ever communed with their appetites so deeply and ordered appropriately without this meditative quiet? Yeah these men were hungry, these were pang-ridden, fuzzy scab knots.
No Clink of Cutlery, Nor Murmur of Man
The last time the dining room in Moby Dick’s was this empty it must have been February, 1983. Two other tables held diners hunched over their red checkered table tops and paper plates. This singular site was something to behold — you can stop into this place for lunch on a Tuesday and not see it this wide open. Add to that the gray and gusting outdoors and it was clear the Outer Cape gods were packaged a cold and wet hell into a storm as a unicorn gift to our travelers. And they would do their part to lift their end of the couch and enjoy it to the fullest — the wine was opened.
Fried Calamari
The calamari was very good, and fresh. Where it contributed most though was the plastic round of ~yellow dipping sauce. It was a great decision to make the counter move against marinara, better even yet to settle on something that tasted so excellent, and, maybe, proprietary. The two men were on the same wave, after a couple aggressive scoops driven by enthusiasm for the unknown ingredients, they both simultaneously, and silently, switched gears and rationed their reaches for the same reason … the meals were en route and this sauce would be an essential addition.
Grilled Shrimp & Scallops
The plate had what must have been two 10-12” skewers packed end to end — one with scallops, the other with shrimp. There appeared to be a semi-sweet glaze glistening off of the fish and, with a little black pepper, that brought the driver a very tasty alternative to the familiar flavor of fried fish. A full ear of corn on the cob held down the center of the plate like a fallen mast. It would be the dinner’s dessert, spun in butter, salt & pepper, its kernels torn from the root. Another pad of butter slipped into the steaming baked potatoes bisection like something kinked out and sexual from SAUSAGE PARTY. The simile becomes no more charming with a nod to how the sour cream was used, does it?
Moby’s Fried Seafood Special
Heaping in stark, even diametric, opposition to the skewers stood the Seafood Special. A monument to Cape Cod’s staple food scene made of fried cod, clams, scallops, and shrimp, built on a foundation of french fries and cole slaw. Served with its own side of sauce, this was a masterpiece and, in essence, what the basis of this voyage to Moby Dick’s was to begin with. As the son drenched his plate and tossed the bone-dry, now practically seedless, lemon wedge to the side, he beamed down on the beast he’d set down to devour.
While he would do his best, complete victory would allude him as shards of fries and whisps of cole slaw found their way to the bin after an admirable effort. To quote the great Dan Marino, “Losing never felt so good,” he confided in the old man as they drained the last of their Pinot Grigio.
Then our heroes, part-refined, part-calloused, and inclined to be wild, clomped their boots along the deck, louder now with fewer tables to hold it down. Somehow. This was anomalous, the crew at the desk and the eaters in the chairs knew it too. It was to be enjoyed. Even a July rain or the occasional thunderous storm in August could never keep the 'fleet this far at bay. In that way, it was magic for the two men. And that thought was certainly on at least one of their minds as they suited back up and ducked back out into the weather.
A Little About Moby Dick’s
Formerly a hamburger joint, this was bought and transformed and has been its own singular take on the New England Seafood Shack for more than 40 years. It’s an institution with a killer trove of merch that offers far more authentic local street cred than a non-descript Cape Cod hoodie picked up on Main Street in Hyannis or a JAWS t-shirt (it was shot on Martha’s Vineyard, come on!). One of the most redeeming and communal parts about the experience is that Moby’s is BYOB and does not charge a corking fee. That’s graceful, thanks Todd and Mignon when you see them.
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