LORD JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH, AND THE ENTIRE CAJUN HOLY TRINITY.
Y’all. Y’ALL.
I don’t even know where to begin with this crime against crawfish.
First off, let me explain something. I’ve spent time down in Louisiana. I’ve had real crawfish boils. I’m talking about the kind where somebody’s Pawpaw is standing over a propane burner in white rubber boots, wearing a stained LSU shirt from 1998, drinking his sixth Natural Light, and yelling at everybody to quit lifting the lid because “THEM BUGS AIN’T DONE YET, SHA!”
THAT’S crawfish.
So naturally, when my wife and I discovered Captain Crab in Silverdale served crawfish, I got more excited than a Cajun who just found out crawfish season started early and the beer was free.
We ordered through DoorDash, sat down, opened our bags, and prepared ourselves for a little taste of home away from the bayou.
CHER, WHAT IN THE UNSEASONED, UNSAVED, UNBAPTIZED HELL DID Y’ALL SEND US?!
I’ve seen some questionable things in my lifetime, but whatever happened to these crawfish needs to be investigated by the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, the FBI, and somebody’s extremely disappointed grandmother.
Let’s start with the seasoning.
WHO IN THE HELL SEASONED THESE CRAWFISH? A SUBSTITUTE TEACHER FROM VERMONT?!
I’ve licked envelopes with more flavor than these mudbugs.
I’ve had communion wafers with more kick.
I’ve tasted Louisiana humidity with more seasoning than these crawfish.
I’m convinced somebody filled up a pot with plain tap water, threw the crawfish in, stood six feet away holding a bottle of Tony Chachere’s, whispered “Laissez les bons temps rouler,” and called it a damn day.
THE CRAWFISH HAD ABSOLUTELY NO FLAVOR.
None. Zero. Not even a damn rumor of seasoning.
I’ve seen more spice in a church cookbook from Minnesota.
Now listen here, cher.
In Louisiana, when you boil crawfish, you season that water like you’re trying to impress somebody’s Mawmaw who hasn’t smiled since the Saints lost the NFC Championship.
Garlic. Cayenne. Lemon. Cajun seasoning. You let those beautiful little swamp lobsters soak up that flavor until the meat has enough personality to start a fight at a family reunion.
The seasoning is supposed to be IN THE CRAWFISH.
Not just sitting in a puddle of butter looking confused about how it got there.
These crawfish tasted like they were boiled in plain water, given a quick rinse, and then introduced to a bucket of Cajun butter at a networking event.
THAT AIN’T A CRAWFISH BOIL, BABY. THAT’S A CAJUN-SCENTED MEET-AND-GREET.
The seasoning and the crawfish weren’t even dating.
They weren’t friends.
They weren’t Facebook friends.
The seasoning had a restraining order against the crawfish and wasn’t allowed within 500 feet of the meat.
And don’t tell me the butter was supposed to fix it.
You can dump all the seasoned butter in the state of Louisiana on a bland crawfish, and all you’ve accomplished is making that poor little bastard slippery.
YOU CAN PUT A TIGER IN A TUTU, BUT THAT DON’T MAKE HIM A BALLERINA, SHA!
Now let’s discuss what happened when I tried to peel these things.
MAIS, GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY.
WHO INSTALLED THE TAIL MEAT WITH JB WELD?!
I’ve removed rusted exhaust manifold bolts from a truck that’s spent 20 winters driving through road salt, and those came loose easier than this damn crawfish meat.
Normally, eating crawfish is a beautiful process.
Twist. Peel. Pull. Eat. Repeat.
A rhythm.
A lifestyle.
A sacred Louisiana tradition.
These little bastards?
TWIST. PEEL. PULL. CURSE. PRAY. NEGOTIATE. QUESTION YOUR LIFE CHOICES. CONSIDER GETTING THE IMPACT GUN.
I swear, the meat was stuck inside those shells like it owed three months’ rent and the sheriff was standing outside with an eviction notice.
I tried pulling.
I tried squeezing.
I tried reasoning with them.
I damn near whispered, “Come on out, little buddy. We ain’t gonna hurt you.”
NOTHING.
By crawfish number four, I was looking around the house for a Milwaukee M18, a bearing puller, and a can of PB Blaster.
My wife was trying to enjoy dinner while I was conducting what can only be described as a full-scale maritime salvage operation.
I wasn’t eating crawfish anymore.
I WAS PERFORMING HEAVY EQUIPMENT RECOVERY ON A DAMN CRUSTACEAN.
And then, as if the good Lord hadn’t tested my patience enough, we get to the sides.
Y’all gave us half an ear of corn and ONE red potato per order.
ONE POTATO?!
MAIS, SHA, DID THE POTATOES COME OUT OF SOMEBODY’S RETIREMENT ACCOUNT?!
Was there a potato shortage?
Did the other potatoes escape?
Was this one potato supposed to feed the whole damn parish?
That poor little red potato was sitting there in the bag all by itself, looking like a lost tourist who accidentally wandered into a family reunion in Lafayette.
I’ve seen more potatoes fall off the back of a truck than what came with this meal.
And the half ear of corn?
HALF?!
Somewhere there’s another half ear of corn wondering where its family went.
A proper crawfish boil should have corn and potatoes soaking up that seasoned goodness, so flavorful that people fight over the last potato.
This potato had nothing to absorb except disappointment.
THAT POTATO HAD LESS SUPPORT THAN AN LSU FAN AT AN ALABAMA TAILGATE.
Now, I already know somebody’s fixing to say:
“Well, you ordered it through DoorDash. What did you expect?”
CHER.
I didn’t expect DoorDash to deliver me an entire backyard cookout in Baton Rouge.
I wasn’t expecting a folding table covered in newspaper, a hundred pounds of crawfish, an ice chest full of beer, and somebody’s Uncle Boudreaux yelling that the last batch wasn’t spicy enough.
I understand how delivery works.
But let me tell you something.
THAT DOORDASH DRIVER DID NOT STOP AT A RED LIGHT, OPEN MY BAG, AND SUCK EVERY OUNCE OF CAJUN SEASONING OUT OF THOSE CRAWFISH.
That flavor was missing before the food ever left the kitchen.
You could’ve driven that bag through a Louisiana hurricane, across the Atchafalaya Basin, and straight through a cloud of Zatarain’s seasoning, and it would’ve had more flavor than what we got.
And here’s what really breaks my little Cajun-loving heart.
WE WERE EXCITED.
Genuinely excited.
Living up here in Washington, a decent crawfish boil can be harder to find than a sober man explaining the rules of a crawfish-eating contest at 11 p.m. in Baton Rouge.
We weren’t asking for fine dining.
We weren’t asking for silverware, white tablecloths, or a waiter named François.
We just wanted some good old-fashioned, properly seasoned, finger-burning, lip-tingling, nose-running crawfish that would make us sit back and say:
“OOOOO-WEEE, NOW THAT’S SOME GOOD EATIN’, SHA!”
Instead, I got a bag of flavorless swamp bugs fighting for custody of their own tail meat, a half-naked ear of corn, and a single potato carrying the emotional weight of the entire meal.
Now, was the butter sauce terrible?
No.
Was everything completely inedible?
No.
We ate it.
But cher, that’s a mighty low bar for a restaurant serving seafood boils.
I didn’t order a $20-something bag of crawfish just so I could dip them in butter and pretend they had a personality.
I could’ve boiled some shrimp at home in plain water, dumped half a bottle of Tony’s in melted butter, and achieved a similar level of culinary confusion.
A PROPER CRAWFISH BOIL SHOULD MAKE YOU SWEAT, SMILE, AND RECONSIDER WHETHER YOU REALLY NEED FEELING IN YOUR LIPS.
These crawfish made me reconsider ordering crawfish in Washington.
Somewhere in Baton Rouge, a 70-year-old Pawpaw just woke up out of a dead sleep, grabbed his wooden paddle, and said:
“SOMEBODY UP NORTH IS DISRESPECTING THE MUDBUGS. I CAN FEEL IT IN MY BONES.”
Captain Crab, I am BEGGING y’all.
Season the boil.
Let the crawfish soak up some flavor.
Give that poor potato some friends.
And for the love of everything holy, please figure out why the crawfish meat is attached to the shells with what feels like aerospace-grade adhesive.
Because right now, these crawfish taste like they were born in Louisiana, moved to Washington, bought a Subaru, started drinking oat milk lattes, and decided black pepper was a little too aggressive.
TWO STARS.
One star because we technically received edible seafood.
The second star is for that brave little potato, who showed up alone, unseasoned, and completely unprepared for the responsibility placed upon him.
That potato is a survivor.
The crawfish, unfortunately, died twice.
Once when they were harvested.
And again when somebody forgot to season them.
I CAME LOOKING FOR A TASTE OF THE BAYOU. INSTEAD, I GOT A BAG OF CRAWFISH THAT NEEDED A PASSPORT TO FIND LOUISIANA.
Mais, cher.
Somebody call Mawmaw.
Tell her to put the coffee on, get Pawpaw’s boiling pot out of the shed, and say a prayer for these poor mudbugs.
BECAUSE THIS WASN’T A CRAWFISH BOIL.
THIS WAS A DAMN CRUSTACEAN HOSTAGE SITUATION WITH CAJUN BUTTER AS THE NEGOTIATOR.
And baby, negotiations have FAILED.
Laissez les bons temps rouler?
MAIS NON, SHA. NOT WITH THESE CRAWFISH.
